Chapter Text

Second Chances

Setting: A remote, private medical facility orbiting earth, months after the end of the Reaper War. The facility is quiet, sterile, lit with soft amber lights. Outside the viewport, the shattered remains of the Crucible hang like a tombstone above Earth.  

Jane Shepard has just awoken.

The first thing Shepard noticed was the pressure in her chest—tight, aching, like her lungs had been stitched back together with wire. Breathing felt like a chore. Every inch of her body was leaden, uncooperative. But she was alive.

Lights buzzed softly overhead. Outside the window, Earth shimmered beneath the shattered remains of the Crucible. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.

Then—Miranda.

She stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, as still as a statue. Except her eyes—they were glassy, rimmed red. Shepard tried to move, and Miranda was instantly beside her.

"Easy," she murmured, her voice a soothing low frequency against the sterile silence. “You’re safe.”

Shepard’s throat burned. “Mira...”

Miranda's lips curled into something between a smile and a grimace. “You're not allowed to do that to me again.”

A soft sound escaped Shepard, maybe a laugh, maybe just air. “You brought me back... again.”

Miranda sat carefully on the edge of the bed. She looked different now. Tired in ways Shepard had never seen. Her perfect posture had cracks. Her fingers trembled as they smoothed a lock of tangled hair from Shepard’s brow.

“I did. And I didn’t have Cerberus this time. No labs, no teams. Just me, some old friends I still owed, and everything I had left.”

Shepard’s brow furrowed, barely able to lift her hand. “That was dangerous.”

Miranda let out a breath, almost a laugh. “So was falling in love with you. But here we are.”

Silence stretched between them, warm, fragile.

“I can’t move,” Shepard whispered.

“I know,” Miranda said, and her voice went soft—so soft. “You won’t be able to, not for a while. But you’re healing. It’s working. You’re here.”

Their eyes locked. For all her strength, all her intellect, Miranda looked relieved. Like she'd finally allowed herself to breathe for the first time in months.

“I missed you,” Miranda said, almost inaudibly.

Shepard’s lip twitched upward. “Did you kiss me while I was dead?”

A flicker of that old smirk ghosted across Miranda’s face. “Only twice. I have some restraint.”

“Liar.”

Miranda leaned down and kissed her forehead—slow, lingering. Shepard couldn’t feel much, but she felt that.

“Rest now,” Miranda whispered, brushing her knuckles along Shepard’s cheek. “I’ve got you. For as long as you need.”

Shepard’s eyes slipped closed, not in defeat, but in surrender—to safety, to warmth, to the woman who defied the impossible again to bring her back.

Miranda stayed by her side, hand wrapped gently around Shepard’s, eyes watching the woman she’d given everything to save. Not as a Cerberus operative. Not as a genetically perfect asset.

But as Miranda.

 As hers.

Chapter Text

Reconstructing Gravity

The hallway was long, sterile, and slightly too bright. Shepard leaned heavily on the railing that lined the left wall, breath ragged. Her legs trembled under her own weight, every step like lifting concrete.

Miranda stood behind her, arms crossed—but not impatiently. Watching. Always watching.

“You’re doing better,” she said softly.

Shepard grunted, wiped sweat from her brow. “I walked fifteen meters without dying. Pretty soon I’ll be ready for a light jog across a battlefield.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Miranda replied, stepping forward. “I have a training sim you’d hate.”

Shepard smirked. “If you upload your voice into the combat AI, I might do it.”

“Now that’s a kink I wasn’t expecting.”

Shepard turned to look at her, smile faint but genuine. “Don’t act surprised. You’ve known I’m a disaster since day one.”

Miranda reached for her arm, guiding her gently back toward the med bay. “Disaster or not, you’re mine. And I plan on keeping you that way.”

Later, after Shepard had showered with Miranda’s careful help and collapsed into bed, they sat together in the dim light of the recovery suite. Miranda had pulled her chair close, their hands loosely intertwined, Shepard’s fingers tracing circles over the back of Miranda’s knuckles.

“You’re different now,” Shepard murmured.

Miranda looked down. “I could say the same.”

“No—I mean it. You’re... softer. But not weak. Just... real.”

Miranda hesitated, then answered truthfully. “I don’t have anyone left to perform for. No Cerberus. No Illusive Man. No image to maintain. Just you. And maybe... myself, if I’m lucky.”

Shepard turned her head, studying her. “Do you regret it? Everything you gave up to bring me back?”

Miranda’s eyes were far away for a moment. “Sometimes I wake up and panic because I realize I have nothing left but this place. You. This room. And then I remember—I chose that. I chose you. I’d make the same choice again. Even if it breaks me.”

Shepard squeezed her hand. “It won’t. I won’t let it.”

The next morning, Shepard was dozing when Miranda entered with a datapad in her hand, an unreadable expression on her face.

Shepherd opened one eye. “Bad news?”

“Not exactly,” Miranda said, setting the pad on the nightstand. “A message came through the encrypted relay.”

Shepard raised a brow. “From who?”

Miranda sat on the edge of the bed again. The mattress dipped under her weight.

“Liara.”

Shepard blinked. “Liara…?”

“She’s been helping rebuild the galactic archives. She reached out to see if... you survived the Crucible.”

A pause.

“I didn’t answer her. Yet.”

Shepard stared at the ceiling for a moment. Her voice was quiet, thoughtful. “She deserves to know.”

“I know.”

“And Ashley?” Shepard asked, hesitating.

Miranda stiffened slightly. “No message from her. Not yet.”

They sat in silence, the weight of old ghosts settling quietly between them. There was no jealousy in Miranda’s voice—just wariness. Not because she doubted Shepard, but because she knew history had gravity. And Shepard had a past.

“I chose you,” Shepard said, turning her head.

Miranda blinked, caught off guard. “I know that.”

“No,” Shepard said, her voice firm despite her weakness. “I choose you. Still. That hasn’t changed.”

Miranda’s expression cracked, just slightly—shoulders relaxing, her mask slipping to reveal a flicker of fragile relief. She leaned down, pressing her lips gently to Shepard’s temple.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not giving you back.”

Chapter Text

What We Were

She arrived in silence, as only Liara could.

Miranda met her in the docking ring, arms crossed, posture pristine, hair tied back in that perfectly efficient knot. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air was still, cool, professional.

Then Miranda extended a hand. “Dr. T’Soni.”

Liara looked at the hand, then took it with quiet dignity. “Miranda. Thank you—for letting me come.”

“She asked for you,” Miranda said, voice calm. “I didn’t do it for you.”

That earned the faintest flicker of a smile from Liara. “Still. Thank you.”

Miranda didn’t follow her past the threshold. She simply turned and walked away, the way she did when she’d made her point and had no more interest in the conversation.

Shepard was sitting up in bed when Liara entered the recovery suite—thin blanket pulled over her lap, a datapad resting on her knees. She looked tired, pale, but there was color in her cheeks again. Strength in her eyes.

“Hey, Blue.”

Liara smiled gently, stepping inside. “Shepard.”

They didn’t touch—not yet. But Liara came to sit beside her, close enough that their knees brushed under the blanket. Close enough to feel the ghost of what they had once been.

“You look...” Liara tilted her head. “Alive.”

“Miranda’s doing,” Shepard said. “Second time she’s brought me back. I think I owe her at least a vacation.”

Liara chuckled softly. “Or a monument.”

They sat in silence for a while, letting the weight of years fill the space between them—Eden Prime, the Shadow Broker, Thessia, the Normandy… the whispers of everything unsaid.

“I heard about what you did,” Shepard said at last. “After the war. You helped rebuild. Organized the data. The history. That’s... important.”

“I had to do something,” Liara said. “After we lost you—I couldn’t just... wait. So I built something.”

Shepard turned to look at her. “You always were good at saving the future.”

Liara met her gaze. “I was trying to save yours, once.”

There was no accusation in her voice. No bitterness. Just truth.

“I know,” Shepard said quietly. “And I loved you for it. But... I wasn’t yours to keep.”

Liara nodded. “I know.”

Their hands found each other. Fingers brushed, then laced, warm and firm.

“I’m happy for you,” Liara said. And she meant it. “She makes you smile. I haven’t seen you smile like that since... well, since before the war.”

“I don’t think I ever stopped caring about you,” Shepard admitted. “But I stopped needing to be with you. That’s different.”

Liara leaned in and pressed her forehead gently to Shepard’s, her skin cool and familiar.

“I loved you, Jane Shepard,” she whispered.

“I know. And I never forgot.”

When they parted, there were no tears—just that soft, aching feeling of something set down gently, rather than dropped.

Miranda was in the main lounge when Liara passed through again, preparing for departure.

She paused beside her, still dressed in simple, traveler’s robes. “You were right to bring her back.”

Miranda didn’t look up from her datapad. “Of course I was.”

A beat passed.

“She’s stronger than I expected,” Liara said.

Miranda finally looked up. Her voice was calm, cool. “She always is.”

Liara gave a soft nod. “She’ll need someone strong beside her. Someone who won’t let her carry it all alone.”

Miranda’s eyes didn’t waver. “She’s not alone.”

Liara smiled one last time—gentle, almost wistful. Then turned, and left.

That night, Miranda returned to the recovery room. Shepard was awake, staring out the window, watching Earth spin like a quiet blue promise in the void.

“She’s gone?” Shepard asked.

“Yes.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Miranda moved to sit beside her, one leg folded under her. She said nothing at first.

Then, softly: “You didn’t have to choose me again.”

Shepard looked at her—at that carefully guarded face. The way Miranda wore control like armor, even now.

“I never un-chose you.”

Miranda’s mask cracked, just for a moment. Just enough.

Then she reached out, took Shepard’s hand, and held it tight.

Chapter Text

The Fire and the Quiet

Miranda knew she was coming before the sensors picked up her ship.

“She’s early,” she muttered, checking the incoming ID. “Of course she is.”

Ashley Williams, Spectre, war hero, six-foot-tall walking contradiction of poetry and ordinance, had never been one for waiting.

The door slid open with its usual hiss, and there she was—aviator jacket slung over one shoulder, dog tags clinking softly, and a look in her eyes like she was either going to cry or punch someone.

Miranda stood, composed as ever. “Williams.”

“Mmm. Lawson.” Ashley’s eyes swept the room, calculated and instinctive. “I was wondering who the hell had the authority to keep Shepard hidden this long. Makes sense. You always had a thing for locked doors and classified files.”

“I had a thing for keeping her alive,” Miranda replied, tone like a scalpel.

Ashley stepped forward, eyes sharp. “And I didn’t?”

“No,” Miranda said quietly, “but you lost her. I didn’t.”

The silence between them was long. Heavy.

Then Ashley took a slow breath and nodded once. “Fair.”

When she stepped into Shepard’s recovery room, the atmosphere shifted.

Shepard looked up and smiled—small, tired, but real. “Ash.”

Ashley didn’t say anything right away. She just crossed the space in two strides and stood at the edge of the bed like a soldier at parade rest. Her eyes traced over every scar, every line of healing. Then she knelt—because of course she did.

She reached out and took Shepard’s hand in both of hers. “You son of a bitch,” she said softly. “You really did it.”

“Not alone,” Shepard said, squeezing her hand.

Ashley blinked fast, trying not to show it. “I knew you had a death wish, but this... this was something else.”

“I had to make a choice,” Shepard said.

“You always do,” Ashley whispered. “And you always make the right one.”

They sat like that for a while—Ashley kneeling, Shepard resting, both of them existing in the ruins of what they used to be.

“I never stopped admiring you,” Ashley said. “Even after everything. Even when we couldn’t be what we were. Hell, maybe because of it.”

“Ash...” Shepard started, but Ashley shook her head.

“Let me finish.” She pulled a crumpled scrap of paper from her pocket—folded and re-folded so many times the edges had worn soft. “I wrote this after the Crucible. Thought it’d be your eulogy.”

She cleared her throat.

“Where fire walks, silence follows,

 And she was fire—terrible, kind.

 A blade in the dark, a shield in the sun,

 I followed her through hell and back.

 I’d do it again.”

She folded it back up, tucked it into Shepard’s hand. “I brought this to read over your grave. Guess I got lucky.”

Shepard blinked hard. “I don’t deserve you.”

Ashley smiled—wry, bittersweet. “No. But I got to love you once. That’s enough.”

She leaned forward and kissed Shepard’s forehead, her touch warm, lingering.

“Be happy,” she whispered. “You and Miranda... hell, you make sense. Even if I hate how much.”

Ashley found Miranda outside, watching Earth from the station's viewport.

She came up beside her, arms folded. “She still flinches in her sleep. You notice that?”

“I do.”

“She ever talk about it?”

Miranda’s jaw clenched slightly. “Not yet.”

“You should get her to. Eventually.”

They stood in silence for a moment, warriors at ease.

Ashley glanced sideways. “You’re good for her.”

Miranda didn’t smile. “I know.”

“And she’s everything,” Ashley said. “You screw it up...”

“I won’t.”

Ashley gave her a long look—then nodded once, satisfied.

“Good.” She turned to leave, but stopped at the doorway. “You ever need someone to watch her six, you call me. No matter what.”

“I will,” Miranda said. And this time, she meant it.

Later, Shepard lay in bed, Miranda seated at her side again, brushing her fingers along Shepard’s arm.

“She still loves you,” Miranda said.

Shepard nodded. “In her way. And I love her. In mine.”

Miranda didn’t speak. She just leaned down, pressing a kiss to Shepard’s shoulder—firm, possessive, but not jealous.

“She gave me a poem,” Shepard murmured.

Miranda rolled her eyes faintly. “Of course she did.”

“I liked it.”

“I’ll write you one better.”

Shepard smiled. “You write poetry?”

“No. But I’m genetically perfect, remember?”

They laughed together—soft and real and free. And for the first time in a long time, the silence that followed didn’t ache.

Chapter Text

Ashes and Clay

The shuttle cut through the dense orange clouds of Tuchanka’s upper atmosphere, engines whining as heat bloomed across the cockpit windows. Shepard stood behind the pilot, arms crossed, weight shifted carefully to her right leg—still the weaker of the two.

Miranda stood beside her, gaze fixed forward. “This planet smells like something died and kept dying.”

Shepard smirked. “You get used to it.”

“I’d rather not.”

The comm crackled. “Landing pad secure. Clan Urdnot welcomes you, Shepard.”

Shepard glanced back at Miranda. “Ready to meet the locals?”

“I’ve met them. I still have bruises.”

The Tuchankan sun was brutal, heavy against Shepard’s armor as she walked through the heart of Urdnot territory. The landscape had changed since the war—less scorched, more green. Strange flowers bloomed in cracks between cracked stone and broken war machines now used as makeshift monuments. A few children—actual children—ran between structures with wild shrieks.

It almost felt like hope.

Wrex was waiting for her near the center of the camp, leaning against a salvaged cannon like it was a lounge chair.

“Shepard,” he growled, grinning. “Took you long enough. I thought you were gonna stay dead this time.”

She walked up to him, clasped his arm in the old warrior grip. “You’d miss me too much.”

“Damn right,” Wrex said, eyes twinkling. “How’s the body count?”

“Just me these days,” Shepard replied. “Still getting used to that.”

Wrex gestured around. “Krogan are breeding again. Real families. Tuchanka hasn’t seen peace like this in a thousand years. Some clans still fight, but... hell, that’s in the blood.”

“Better to fight each other than the galaxy.”

Wrex grunted. “And what about you? You come here for a war? Or something else?”

Shepard turned her gaze toward the jagged cliffs in the distance. “I came to see someone.”

Wrex’s voice softened—just barely. “He’s where he asked to be. You want a guide?”

She shook her head. “No. I need to walk this one alone.”

Mordin’s resting place wasn’t marked by a gravestone. Just a cluster of sun-baked rocks, a piece of twisted metal from the Shroud tower driven into the ground like a spear. Around it, wild Tuchankan flowers bloomed in muted orange and red.

Shepard stood there a long time, arms loose at her sides.

“You’d probably hate this,” she said aloud. “Too disorganized. No structure. But... it’s alive. And that’s what you wanted, right?”

The wind howled over the rocks like an old, familiar whisper.

“You were right,” she murmured. “There was a way to cure the genophage. There was always a way. We just needed someone brave enough to burn for it.”

She knelt—still stiff, but strong. Reached into her coat and pulled out a small datapad. She’d recorded her message on the flight over.

“I don’t know what comes after this. I’m not dead, but I’m not really who I was. The war’s over, but I keep waking up expecting a call to arms.”

She set the datapad at the base of the metal shard.

“I miss your music, Mordin. I miss your chaos. But I’m glad... so glad... you died the way you wanted. On your terms. Saving lives.”

She bowed her head. “Goodbye, old friend.”

Miranda was waiting for her when she returned to the shuttle, arms folded, hair windswept by the hot breeze.

“You okay?” she asked, quietly.

Shepard nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”

They boarded together, and as the shuttle lifted off, Shepard looked back one last time—at a scarred planet healing in the sun, at the past buried beneath wildflowers and steel.

Chapter Text

By Firelight

The firepit crackled with low, hungry flames. Tuchankan nights weren’t cold by human standards, but the krogan built fires anyway—tradition, or maybe just an excuse to burn things.

Wrex sat cross-legged on a flat stone, nursing a dented flask of something that hissed when exposed to air. Shepard sat across from him, a little stiff from the hike back down the ridge. Miranda had opted to stay inside the shuttle—something about "not bonding with reptilian warlords over fermented death juice."

Wrex offered her the flask.

She took a sniff, grimaced. “This smells like paint thinner.”

“Because it is,” Wrex grinned. “But it also gets rid of lingering guilt and emotional trauma. At least for an hour.”

Shepard took a sip.

Burning. Fire, smoke, battery acid. Then... a weird, soothing warmth in her bones.

“Damn,” she wheezed. “You should bottle this and sell it to therapists.”

Wrex chuckled. “Krogan therapy is just drinking and fighting. Sometimes both at once.”

They sat quietly for a while. The stars above Tuchanka were clear tonight, the sky vast and unmarred by warships for once.

“Shepard,” Wrex said, voice low. “You ever regret it?”

She didn’t look at him. Just stared into the fire. “What, ending the Reapers? Surviving?”

“No. Saving us.”

She thought about Mordin. About the Shroud. About Wrex's face, furious and heartbroken, before she told him the cure was real.

“Never.”

Wrex nodded. “Good. Me neither.”

Another silence passed, but it was a comfortable one.

Then the earth trembled slightly under their feet.

A second later, Grunt bounded into view like a charging varren, skidding to a stop by the fire.

“Shepard!” he barked, grinning ear to ear. “You’re not dead again!”

She smirked. “Nice to see you too, big guy.”

Grunt dropped onto the ground beside her, knocking over a rock. “Wrex wouldn’t let me tackle you. Said I’d ‘break something that isn’t metal anymore.’”

“She’s still recovering,” Wrex muttered. “Try not to crush her.”

“I’m not that heavy!”

“You’re a tank-bred murder machine.”

“Lightweight murder machine.”

Shepard laughed—truly laughed—for the first time in weeks.

Grunt puffed his chest. “I’m the strongest warrior in three clans now. Killed a thresher maw last week. With my hands.”

“Brag louder,” Wrex said. “I think the moon didn’t hear you.”

“I would if the moon could fight me!”

Shepard shook her head, grinning as she passed the flask back to Wrex. “You’re raising him right.”

“Don’t remind me,” Wrex grunted. “You know, he asked me last month what it means to be ‘a legend.’ I told him: ‘It means someone else gets to tell your story when you're gone.’”

Shepard’s smile faded slightly. “And who’s telling ours?”

Wrex met her gaze. “We are. While we’re still breathing.”

Later, as the fire burned low and the krogan sprawled into stories and half-fights, Shepard leaned back against a warm stone, legs stretched, muscles sore but strong again.

Grunt was already asleep, snoring loud enough to shake the ground. Wrex sat beside her, still as a monument.

“You ever think it’d end like this?” she asked.

“No,” Wrex said. “I thought I’d die breaking someone’s skull open in a pit. Not... leading a people into peace.”

“You’re good at it.”

“So are you.”

She looked down at the firelight dancing across her hands. Scars, faded but permanent. Strength earned.

“Not sure what I’m leading anymore.”

Wrex grunted. “You don’t need a war to matter, Shepard. You already changed the damn galaxy. Now maybe... just live in it a little.”

She closed her eyes.

Maybe she could.

Chapter Text

Warm Bones, Sharp Tongues

The stars above Tuchanka burned like cold silver sparks.

Jane Shepard stood at the edge of the Urdnot compound, arms braced against a rail fashioned from old weapon barrels. Her body ached in that slow, satisfying way that said you made it through another day. The scent of dust and distant fire still lingered in the air.

“You smell like a krogan funeral pyre.”

She didn’t have to turn around.

“Hey, Miranda,” she said, smiling.

Miranda stepped up beside her, arms crossed, eyes on the stars. She looked almost relaxed. Almost.

“How was the bonding?” she asked. “Did you smash skulls? Share blood oaths? Compare scars?”

“Close,” Shepard said. “Wrex gave me something that might’ve been liquor. Or industrial solvent. And Grunt tried to tackle me.”

“Good,” Miranda said. “I’d hate to think you traveled across half the galaxy just to get sentimental.”

“You love it when I get sentimental.”

“I tolerate it. For your sake.”

Shepard looked sideways at her. “Uh-huh.”

Miranda glanced back, lips twitching. “Okay, fine. I do love it. But don’t make a habit of it. I have a reputation.”

“You keep saying that like anyone believes you’re cold.”

“I am very cold,” Miranda said, indignant. “Exceptionally cold. Glacial.”

Shepard chuckled. “Right. You, who revived me with your own money and nearly burned yourself out doing it, are a walking iceberg.”

“Exactly. I even have sharp edges.”

“You have a soft side.”

Miranda gave her a look. “Say that again and I’ll leave you here.”

They both laughed. Quiet, real.

The wind picked up again, carrying a dry breeze and a far-off echo of krogan laughter. Shepard let the silence stretch for a moment.

“Mordin’s grave was beautiful,” she said softly. “Wildflowers and silence. Felt like him. In the end.”

Miranda looked over, her expression softening. “I always liked him. Brilliant, insufferable, twitchy as hell. But... he never flinched from doing what was right. No matter how hard.”

“He’d probably be analyzing my blood right now. ‘Hmm. Subtle traces of krogan ethanol. Reckless. Admirable. Suggest detox in 1.7 hours.’”

“...‘Note: also, legs still disproportionately muscular. Evolutionarily inconvenient. Reassess quadriceps dominance.’” Miranda mimicked, voice high and clinical.

Shepard burst out laughing. “God. That’s too good. You’ve been practicing.”

“I’ve had time.”

They leaned against the rail together, close enough to share warmth without touching, the unspoken comfort of lovers who no longer needed to explain everything.

After a while, Miranda spoke again, quieter now. “You looked... at peace, when you came back from that ridge. Not fixed. But less... haunted.”

“I am,” Shepard said. “I think. It's strange. I keep expecting more war. A mission. Another enemy. But today… it just felt like a visit.”

Miranda bumped her shoulder gently. “That’s because it was. You survived, Shepard. And now you get to live.”

Shepard looked at her. “With you?”

Miranda’s brow arched. “Do you need to ask?”

“No. But I like hearing it.”

Miranda smiled. “Then yes. With me.”

She reached out, took Shepard’s hand, their fingers lacing together in the dark. Miranda’s skin was warm, her grip firm.

“I’ll stay with you,” she said. “As long as you’ll have me. Even on disgusting death-planets.”

Shepard grinned. “Romantic.”

“I try.”

They stood there, side by side, the galaxy finally quiet for once.

Chapter Text

What We Inherit

The Eos Monarch touched down near a cliffside settlement on Rannoch. Silver towers grew out of the red stone like crystals, curving and elegant, half-organic in design. Solar sails bloomed overhead, catching soft afternoon light. A gentle hum of geth infrastructure pulsed beneath the ground.

“Shepard,” said Miranda, shielding her eyes as they stepped out into the warm air. “You never visit normal places.”

“This is normal for Rannoch,” Shepard replied. “No gunfire, no dying AIs. I call that a win.”

“It's still weird when the roads sing at you.”

The moment was interrupted by a familiar synthetic chirp.

“Keelah! Shepard!”

Tali’Zorah vas Normandy came jogging down the path, arms flung wide. Her new suit shimmered with violet and sea-glass hues, sleeker than before—elegant, but still Tali. The mask was the same, but Shepard could hear the smile in her voice.

Tali threw her arms around her, and Shepard caught her in a firm hug, lifting her clean off the ground.

“You’re really back,” Tali murmured. “When Hackett said... I didn’t believe it until just now.”

“I’m harder to kill than a Reaper,” Shepard said. “You should know that by now.”

Tali leaned back, then looked over at Miranda. “And I see you brought your... Cerberus cheerleader.”

Miranda crossed her arms, cool and composed. “Please. I left the cult. Full reformation arc. Very dramatic.”

“She’s on redemption tour,” Shepard added with a smirk.

“More of a restoration tour,” Miranda said. “Though some systems still lag behind.”

Tali tilted her head. “You mean your ego?”

“Oh, I like her,” Miranda muttered.

Shepard stepped between them, amused. “Play nice, both of you. Tali, I came to see how Rannoch’s doing. What you made of it.”

Tali gestured toward the horizon. “Come on, then. I’ll show you what you saved.”

The cliff walk curved gently above a wide ravine filled with wind turbines and glowing geth spires. Crops grew in sculpted terraces, and far below, a shimmering lake stretched toward the sea. Geth platforms moved among the quarian engineers, working side by side. It looked like a painting—something from a future that once felt impossible.

Miranda whistled low. “I expected sand and ruins. This is... impressive.”

“We had a lot to prove,” Tali said. “To ourselves. To the geth. And to her.”

She nodded toward Shepard.

“I just gave you the chance,” Shepard said. “You did the rest.”

“You gave everything,” Tali said, voice soft. “And almost didn’t come back.”

The three of them stood at the overlook, silence stretching comfortably. Then Tali looked between them.

“You know... I never really got you two. Not at first.”

“Most people don’t,” Miranda replied, dry.

“I mean, you were Cerberus.”

“Yes, we’ve established that. Repeatedly.”

“But then I saw the way you looked at her,” Tali continued, undeterred. “Like she was your tether to something real.”

Miranda blinked. “That’s... unexpectedly poetic.”

Tali shrugged. “I read poetry. And I know what grief looks like when you choose to come back anyway.”

The air got quiet again. Miranda stared out at the towers, suddenly thoughtful.

“My father tried to design me to be perfect,” she said at last. “Smart, strong, loyal. Everything he wasn’t. But I never felt like mine. Not until Shepard.”

Tali nodded. “Sounds familiar. My father wanted me to prove something, too. That the old ways were worth dying for. He couldn’t see that letting go might’ve saved him.”

Miranda looked over, surprised. “I didn’t expect to have that in common with you.”

“Most people don’t expect quarians to be anything but masks and tech.”

“Most people are idiots.”

Tali laughed softly. “Maybe. But some of them change.”

They both looked at Shepard then—still standing, quiet, listening.

“I didn’t fix your lives,” Shepard said. “You did that yourselves.”

“You gave us the choice,” Miranda said. “That’s more than most people ever get.”

That night, Tali hosted them in a quiet room made from polished stone and repurposed starship walls. There was soup with sweet spices, filtered wine, and music from both quarian and geth composers playing low in the background.

They didn’t talk about war. They talked about rebuilding. Mistakes. What comes after surviving.

At one point, Miranda looked at Tali and said, “You know... you’re not so bad.”

Tali sipped her wine. “You’re not so terrifying either. Just... deeply smug.”

“I’ll take that as progress.”

Shepard smiled, watching them. Maybe it really was progress.

Chapter Text

Keelah and Cocktails

The stars were out, the wine was flowing, and somehow—without meaning to—it had become story time.

Tali was curled up on a repurposed couch with a steaming mug of something sweet and quarian-safe, her hood slightly tilted as if tipsy from memory alone.

Miranda sat across from her, legs elegantly crossed, nursing a glass of pale gold liquor. Shepard lounged nearby on a low bench, arm slung over the backrest, wearing that half-smirk of impending chaos.

“I still don’t know how I ended up in the middle of that conversation between Traynor and EDI,” Tali was saying, her voice just slightly exaggerated. “One minute I’m asking if the dip has dextro-compatible labels, and the next, I’m the referee for a debate about synthetic erogenous zones.”

Miranda choked on her drink. “Oh Keelah, I remember that. You looked like someone handed you a bomb made of awkward.”

“She asked if I had personal experience with adaptable tech interfaces!” Tali yelped. “I was just trying to find the snack table!”

Shepard was openly laughing now, head tilted back. “You had your omni-tool up like a shield.”

“And I used it! I threw a projection of a thermal clip to distract them and ran.”

Miranda wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “That was still less weird than your dance moves, Shepard.”

Shepard feigned offense. “Hey. My moves are tactical. I dance like I fight: unpredictably.”

“You danced like your body forgot gravity existed,” Tali said. “You were trying to ‘moonwalk’ and ended up nearly moon-punching Joker.”

“She did!” Miranda said. “He ducked and yelled, ‘This is a hate crime against rhythm!’”

“I was testing crowd control formations,” Shepard said, snorting.

“Crowd control? You were flailing like a malfunctioning mech.”

“At least I wasn’t twerking to turians,” Shepard shot back with a grin.

Miranda took a slow sip of her drink, eyes sparkling. “That was a controlled maneuver. There was a beat. There was form.”

Tali raised her hand. “There was a minor explosion in the kitchen.”

“Oh gods,” Miranda groaned. “Grunt and Wrex tried to microwave a rack of ribs in a metal crate.”

“And then said it was a ‘ceremonial explosion,’” Tali added. “To ‘bless the meat.’”

“Which Wrex then threw through the window like a victory offering!” Miranda said, practically wheezing.

Shepard wiped her face. “You know... for a bunch of people who saved the galaxy, we’re incredibly unhinged.”

“That’s what happens when you give war heroes access to an open bar,” Tali said.

“Oh! And you, Miss Cerberus,” Tali pointed at Miranda. “You were doing that slow, hip-swaying thing to that Thessian lounge track while Garrus and Vega nearly fought over who had better form.”

Miranda smirked. “It’s not my fault people appreciate precision.”

“It was hypnotic,” Shepard said dreamily.

“See?” Miranda raised a brow. “Tactical advantage.”

“You had EDI clapping along in perfect 7/8 time.”

Tali leaned back, voice slightly muffled by her mug. “You know, for a bunch of people from different species, organizations, and questionable moral alignments, we really knew how to throw a party.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Miranda said. “Did anyone ever find out who sent the fake Cerberus recruitment flyers to Zaeed?”

Tali burst out laughing. “It had his face on it!”

“‘Join Cerberus Today: Get Paid to Shoot Traitors and Complain About Kids!’” Shepard quoted.

Miranda raised her glass. “To Zaeed. May he never learn Photoshop.”

“And to us,” Shepard said, holding hers out too. “For surviving the war, surviving each other, and somehow making it through an open bar with minimal fatalities.”

They clinked their glasses.

The stars above Rannoch twinkled in quiet approval.

Chapter Text

Full Cerberus Mode

Somewhere between the third and fifth bottle, the stories got weird.

Tali had resorted to lounging half sideways on the couch, one boot off, snickering with her feet tucked under her like a kid on a sleepover. Shepard was red-faced from laughter, her hair in disarray, occasionally thumping the table for dramatic punctuation. Miranda had one hand elegantly holding her drink and the other ready to execute someone if needed.

“And then,” Tali said, giggling through her words, “Ashley leans on the kitchen counter, tosses her hair like she’s in a vid, and says—I’m just saying, Shepard, if Miranda ever screws up, you know where to find me.”

Shepard’s eyes went wide. “That’s what she said?!”

Miranda's drink stopped mid-air.

“Oh no,” Tali went on, delighted and slightly evil. “And then she winked. Winked. It was devastating.”

Shepard made the sound of a dying fish. “No wonder you dragged me out of the kitchen!”

Miranda, with the slow control of a huntress who’s just scented her rival, turned her head. Her voice dropped an octave. “She flirted with you?”

“Technically—” Shepard began.

“With intent?”

“She might’ve—”

“She does have nice arms,” Tali added helpfully.

Miranda’s smile was like a scalpel. “I can end her.”

“Miranda,” Shepard said gently, putting a hand on her knee. “No war crimes on Rannoch.”

“Fine,” Miranda said, sipping her drink. “But if she sends you one more ‘accidental’ shirtless firing range selfie... I will hack the fleet's entertainment systems and broadcast every time she got beaten at poker by Traynor.”

“Oh keelah,” Tali whispered. “You still have those vids?”

“I have everything.” Miranda’s voice was sweet venom.

Just then, someone brought up Samara.

Tali practically squealed. “Samara danced.”

Miranda blinked. “No. No, she did not.”

“She did! It was terrifying and beautiful. Like if an ice sculpture came to life and decided to crush your soul on beat.”

“Shepard?” Miranda turned.

“She did one of those slow, floaty moves,” Shepard said. “Liara started clapping. Garrus dropped a drink.”

“And Joker shouted ‘We are NOT insured for this!’” Tali added.

“Speaking of Joker,” Miranda said, eyes narrowing, “he spent most of the night programming EDI’s dance subroutines to mock everyone else’s moves.”

“Oh keelah,” Tali groaned, laughing into her mug. “She did that perfect Shepard lean-spin-wobble thing—with commentary!”

“I believe the phrase was ‘I fight Reapers but cannot locate my own knees.’” Miranda said, smirking.

Shepard gave her a playful shove. “Traitor.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Miranda purred.

That got Tali. She squeaked and made a dramatic gagging sound. “Okay! That’s my limit. You two are the reason I couldn’t finish my drink at the party—you made kissing noises across the room like teenagers!”

“We were in love and also very drunk,” Shepard said proudly.

“Miranda’s dress had thigh slits for maximum distraction,” Tali accused.

Miranda shrugged. “A calculated maneuver.”

“Liara tripped over a beanbag because of you.”

“That was also calculated.”

Shepard grinned like a war criminal. “I remember Ashley staring so hard I thought her eyelashes were gonna catch fire.”

Tali nodded. “And you—you tried to fake a dance-off to stop her from ogling Miranda’s legs.”

“I panicked!”

“You said, ‘Hey! Look at these knees!’”

“I stand by that decision,” Shepard declared.

Miranda leaned close to her, voice purring and dark. “You’re lucky I find your chaos charming. And that you’re mine.”

“She said that loudly at the party,” Tali added. “And then stared Ashley down across the whole room like a biotic charging sequence.”

“I was being subtle,” Miranda said.

“She dropped her drink,” Shepard said, still laughing. “It was kind of hot.”

Miranda allowed herself a smirk and a sip. “I know.”

Later that night, they were sprawled across couches and cushions under the open Rannoch sky. Stars spun overhead. The night air was gentle and warm. Shepard’s hand was in Miranda’s. Tali had finally passed out hugging a pillow labeled “ventilator access panel.”

And just before Shepard closed her eyes, she whispered:

 “You know... if we throw another party...”

Miranda didn’t even look up. “No moonwalking.”

Chapter Text

Glass Towers and Quiet Storms

The sun over Thessia filtered like soft gold through spires of crystalline steel and sapphire-tinted glass. Shepard stepped off the shuttle with a slight roll of her shoulders—her recovery near-complete, her stride heavier now, more assured.

Miranda followed beside her, posture pristine, sunglasses on, not because she needed them, but because they made her feel like a holo-star turned war hero—which, in a way, she was.

“It’s still gorgeous,” Shepard muttered, taking in the view.

“Overdesigned and too clean,” Miranda murmured. “Like an art gallery trying to be a civilization.”

“I thought you liked clean lines.”

“I like efficient lines. Not ones built to make poets weep.”

They didn’t need to ask for directions. A discreet asari diplomat had already arranged everything for them. They were expected. Always expected.

They found Liara at the Thessian Archives—of course they did.

She was deep in conversation with a temple historian, datapads in both hands, multi-tasking like a biotic storm dressed in scholarly silk. When she looked up and saw them, there was no surprise—just a small, composed smile.

“Shepard. Miranda.” She nodded in greeting, then turned back to the archivist. “We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

The woman bowed and left, and Liara walked with practiced ease toward the pair. The tension was subtle but present—less dramatic than awkward. These three knew each other too well for pretenses.

“You both look... rested,” Liara said smoothly.

“Recovery suits her,” Miranda replied, brushing a bit of dust off Shepard’s shoulder like she owned the real estate.

“I imagine having you hovering day and night helped.” Liara’s tone was pleasant. Too pleasant.

“Oh, she didn’t hover,” Shepard muttered. “She monitored me. Like a biotic thermometer with snark.”

“I was thorough,” Miranda said sweetly.

“I can imagine,” Liara replied, cool and poised, but there was something in her eyes—an echo of what once was.

The archives were quiet, echoing with soft classical Asari melodies and the distant hum of containment fields. Holograms shifted as they passed: scenes of ancient Thessian battles, Matriarch councils, and post-war recovery projects.

Eventually, they reached a small gallery off the main path—dedicated to the heroes of the Reaper War.

There, among the murals and artifacts, stood a familiar statue. Her.

Shepard stared.

“Still not over this,” she whispered.

The statue was too idealized. Not quite right. She looked... serene. Which was a lie.

“Do I really look that composed when I’m ordering a gunship strike?”

Miranda folded her arms. “They missed the tension in your jaw. And your ridiculous battle hair.”

Liara stepped beside them, voice soft. “It’s symbolic. The sculptor said you represented the union of strength and hope.”

“Shepard’s thighs are stronger than hope,” Miranda said dryly.

“She’s not wrong,” Shepard muttered.

Liara rolled her eyes—but fondly.

They didn’t need to talk about what had passed between them. That conversation had already happened—off-screen, off-world. But there was always a shadow of it in Liara’s smile. She didn’t burn with regret. Not anymore. But the ember was there.

Miranda felt it. She always did.

And she met it head-on.

“I was thinking,” she said lightly, “about having a matching statue built. One of me. You know, something understated—black and chrome. Sharp cheekbones.”

“With a datapad in one hand and a warning label in the other?” Liara asked.

“Exactly. Captioned: ‘Looks like a goddess, judges like a sniper.’”

Shepard snorted. “Can we get Garrus to sculpt it? His calibrations are finally done.”

Miranda looked pleased. “Only if he adds a dramatic wind effect.”

They exited into the courtyard, where a familiar figure stood waiting: Samara.

The Justicar inclined her head. “Shepard. Lawson.”

“Samara,” Shepard said warmly. “I should’ve known you’d be here. Feels like you and Thessia go way back.”

“I return when I can,” Samara said. “To meditate. And to remind myself why we fight.”

Miranda gave a nod of quiet respect. “And to watch over certain scholars who may or may not still tinker with dangerous relics?”

Liara blinked, then smiled tightly. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Shepard grinned. “I absolutely do.”

Samara’s lips quirked slightly—her version of a laugh.

They spent the evening in a quiet lounge high above the Thessian skyline. Tea turned to wine, and wine turned to a faintly buzzed exchange of stories—less raucous than Rannoch, but no less charged.

Liara told tales of Asari politicians mishandling post-war negotiations, Miranda countered with Cerberus defectors turned motivational speakers, and Samara—stoic as ever—listened with occasional dry commentary that reduced everyone to tears of laughter.

And when Miranda stepped away for a moment to take a secure call (some old contact rattling about unauthorized clone projects), Liara leaned in just slightly toward Shepard.

“You look happier now,” she said quietly.

“I am,” Shepard replied, glancing after Miranda.

Liara nodded, eyes gentle. “Good. You deserve it.”

There was no bitterness there anymore. Just a soft kind of peace. And respect. Always that.

Chapter Text

Red Lights and Grey Morals

The moment the shuttle doors hissed open, the scent of ozone, exhaust, and bad decisions rolled in like a second atmosphere. Omega—where the air tasted like secrets and the floors were slick with ambition.

“Smells like someone tried to mop up a rebellion with a cocktail napkin,” Miranda muttered as she stepped onto the dock.

Shepard chuckled, her hands casually resting on her hips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m just impressed it hasn’t collapsed under the weight of its own corruption yet.”

“I’m pretty sure it has. Several times. They just repainted.”

Miranda sniffed. “Cerberus at least had better lighting.”

They navigated through the familiar chaos—Vorcha shouting over busted comms, neon signs flickering in every language imaginable, a krogan in a tutu body-checking a bouncer out of his boots. It was like a fever dream curated by a drunk salarian with a flamethrower.

And then: Afterlife.

Still the same. Still pulsing with that deep, bone-shaking beat. Still guarded by an Elcor with a broken nose and no patience.

Inside, the shadows danced around columns of light. The music was slower now, more dangerous. Everything reeked of power in decay.

At the center of it all, slouched on her throne like a monarch who’d smoked too much of her own mythology, sat Aria T’Loak.

“Shepard,” Aria said, not even looking up. “And Lawson. You brought your pet back from the dead. Again.”

Miranda tilted her head. “You say that like you’re jealous.”

“I say it like it’s a bad investment. But then, you were always into projects with control issues.”

Shepard folded her arms and grinned. “Good to see you too, Aria.”

Aria finally looked up, eyes sharp and amused. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just surprised the galaxy hasn’t folded into a singularity of melodrama since your return.”

“We’ve been busy,” Shepard said. “Sightseeing. Talking to people. Seeing what’s left.”

“And they’re all just so grateful, aren’t they?” Aria’s voice dripped with dry amusement. “Little shrines, soft tears, awkward public speeches. Has Thessia renamed a mountain after you yet?”

Miranda cut in, sweetly venomous. “We didn’t stop here for your approval.”

“No,” Aria purred. “You stopped here because even saviors need to feel dirty sometimes.”

There was a pause. The music pulsed. A dancer slipped on a drink tray in the background. No one noticed.

“So,” Shepard said, changing the subject before Miranda deployed her biotics, “how’s Omega holding up?”

“Beautifully,” Aria said, stretching like a cat. “Still a pit. Still mine. No more Cerberus. Fewer Reapers. More freelancers. Fewer rules. Just the way I like it. Balance, in chaos.”

Miranda raised a brow. “Sounds like you're about two weeks away from being overthrown again.”

Aria smiled slowly. “Let them try. I miss killing people for fun.”

She took a long sip of something radioactive-looking, then locked eyes with Shepard.

“You know,” Aria said slowly, with that glint that always preceded something dangerous or wildly inappropriate, “I’ve never thanked you properly. For saving Omega. For saving everything, really.”

Shepard narrowed her eyes. “I’m sensing a setup.”

Aria leaned forward, voice silk and steel. “Let’s call it... a proposal. You. Me. And your perfectly sculpted Cerberus ex-operative over there.”

Miranda didn’t flinch. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke,” Aria said.

Shepard blinked. “Is this payback for when I blew up that fuel depot?”

“No,” Aria replied. “That was just bad strategy. This is because I’m bored. And you’re both... infuriatingly attractive.”

Miranda stepped forward, looking Aria dead in the eye. “You know, for someone who claims to hate sentiment, that sounded a lot like a desperate cry for companionship.”

Aria smirked. “Oh, honey. I don’t do desperate. I do chaos. And occasionally? I do heroes.”

Shepard snorted. “I’d say we’ll think about it, but I think Miranda’s already calculating escape vectors.”

“I’ve already planned three,” Miranda said. “One involves ejecting you through the roof.”

Aria laughed—genuinely.

“Get out of here,” she said. “Before I decide I really like you.”

Shepard gave a mock salute. “Try not to burn down your own empire before we swing back around.”

“No promises.”

Back on the shuttle, Miranda leaned against the wall, exhaling deeply.

“Never again,” she muttered.

“She grows on you,” Shepard said.

“Like a rash,” Miranda replied. “A charismatic, lethal, deeply inappropriate rash.”

They both laughed.

The ship lifted, next stop? 

Chapter Text

Whiskey, War Stories, and Warning Shots

You didn’t find Zaeed Massani on Omega. You followed the trail of spent thermal clips, broken noses, and yelling until you stumbled into him.

He was holed up in what used to be a speakeasy-slash-sniper's nest on the edge of Afterlife’s quieter sector—if Omega ever had such a thing. Now it was more or less a workshop… or a bomb waiting for an excuse.

The door opened with a hydraulic wheeze and the distinct smell of gun oil and cigars hit them like a krogan headbutt.

“I told you bastards I don’t want your damn prototype plasma knives! If it can’t cut through a skycar and also butter, I don’t want it!”

“Zaeed?” Shepard called out.

There was a pause. Then the sound of heavy boots, and the man himself emerged from behind a stack of disassembled weaponry and what looked suspiciously like a deactivated Geth head turned into a lamp.

“Well I'll be damned. Look what the reaper war dragged back in.” He grinned, a face full of lines and scars lighting up with genuine surprise. “You’re alive. Again. I swear, Shepard, you’ve got more comebacks than I’ve got bad knees.”

She smirked. “You counting both of them or just the good one?”

He gave a raspy chuckle, then turned toward Miranda.

“And you brought the Cerberus Barbie. Thought you’d finally ditched the shiny types.”

Miranda gave him a cool smile. “Still shiny. Just upgraded.”

Zaeed raised a brow. “You always this sarcastic or is this just your flirting voice?”

“It’s the voice I use when I meet relics of the last century.”

Shepard covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Zaeed gave a loud bark of amusement. “I like her. Damn fine pick, Shepard. She’s mouthy. And definitely out of your league.”

“Tell me about it,” Jane said, grinning.

The three of them settled into what passed for seating—ammo crates, half-cleaned rifles as footrests, and a table scarred with what was either old bullet holes or just Zaeed being bored.

Zaeed poured something strong into three mismatched glasses. It was probably alcohol. Probably.

“To surviving, and being too stubborn to stay dead,” he said.

“To being too stubborn,” Shepard echoed.

“To better company,” Miranda added, raising an eyebrow.

Zaeed took a swig and immediately started coughing. “Goddamn. This tastes like a turian’s boot lining. Still smoother than Alliance rations.”

He leaned back, eyeing the two women with something between gruff fondness and mild disbelief.

“You know,” he began, pointing a calloused finger at Shepard, “when I first met you, I figured you’d get us all killed within a week. Then you turned out to be the most dangerous woman in the galaxy. And now here you are, dragging your posh girlfriend through the filth of Omega just to say hi.”

“I missed the smell,” Jane deadpanned.

“Smells like gunpowder and bad decisions,” Miranda said, fanning her nose. “You could bottle it.”

“I did,” Zaeed grinned. “Called it ‘Eau de Warcrime.’ Didn’t sell well. Volus sued me.”

After a few more rounds of increasingly incoherent reminiscing—including a story involving a knife fight, three Varren, and what may have been a stolen statue of Saren—Zaeed finally leaned forward.

“Truth is,” he muttered, swirling his drink, “I’ve been thinking of calling it quits. Not ‘retirement’—that’s for people who own socks without holes. Just... stepping back.”

Shepard tilted her head. “You serious?”

“As serious as a krogan with a grudge. Figured maybe I’ll train some young idiots. Pass on the Massani magic. Or build a bar. Something quiet.”

Miranda blinked. “You? Quiet?”

“I said maybe.”

He sighed, eyeing the both of them. “But hey. Before I go completely soft... it’s good seeing you. Both of you. Means not all the blood and noise went nowhere.”

Shepard put a hand on his shoulder. “You did more than most, Zaeed. You earned whatever peace you want.”

He nodded. Then added with a smirk, “Still not joining you two in any kind of weird relationship thing, if that’s where this is going.”

Miranda coughed on her drink. “Excuse me?!”

“I mean, hell,” he said, waving his hand. “You’re already a walking holo drama. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

Shepard shook her head. “Not everyone we visit wants to get in our bed, Zaeed.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

When they finally stood to leave, Zaeed gave Shepard a firm handshake and Miranda a surprisingly respectful nod.

“Take care of her,” he said.

Miranda looked at Jane, then back at him. “Always.”

As they disappeared into the clamor of Omega, Zaeed shouted after them:

“If she dies again, I'm not paying for the next resurrection! And I still want my cut from the last one!”

Chapter Text

Synthetic Wine, Organic Trouble

They picked one of the nicer restaurants on the Presidium Ring—Le Jardin de Nebuleuse, the kind of place that made you say things like “ooh” and “do I really need a second mortgage to order appetizers?”

Miranda adjusted the sleek black dress she wore like armor, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor.

“You realize this was your idea,” she muttered to Shepard as they approached the reserved booth.

“I know,” Jane replied. “That’s what makes it worse.”

They turned the corner and spotted them: Joker in a suit that somehow made him look like he was either about to make a stock trade or crash a speeder, and EDI in a shimmering silver dress, her holographic projections subtly mimicking flowing fabric over a chassis that had no business looking that fashionable.

Joker saw them and grinned like a kid who’d just discovered grenades.

“Look who didn’t ghost us,” he said. “I was about to bet EDI five credits you’d ‘forget’ to show.”

EDI tilted her head. “I was ninety-seven percent certain they would arrive. The remaining three percent accounted for unexpected explosions or last-minute romantic entanglements involving Asari diplomats.”

Miranda arched a brow. “You give us a three percent chaos rating. That’s flattering.”

“Actually,” EDI said cheerfully, “Shepard's chaos rating is twelve percent. Yours is two. But it spikes dramatically when you wear leather.”

Miranda blinked. “Excuse me?”

“She runs simulations,” Joker added helpfully. “It’s... a thing now.”

Shepard sat down, smirking. “God, I missed this."

Wine was ordered. Appetizers appeared and were promptly ignored in favor of banter.

“So,” Joker said, swirling a glass of something purple and unnecessarily carbonated, “how’s the galaxy tour? Making your rounds like some kind of heroic power couple slash guilt-ridden war ghosts?”

“It’s been... strange,” Shepard admitted. “Everyone’s rebuilding. Trying to decide what comes next.”

“And you?” EDI asked, eyes glowing softly. “What comes next for you both?”

Miranda glanced at Jane, then back at EDI. “We’re figuring it out. One planet at a time. One mess at a time.”

“She gets grumpy if we stay still too long,” Shepard added.

“Stagnation is the enemy of evolution,” EDI agreed. “Also, she gets bored. Bored Miranda is... intimidating.”

Joker coughed. “Like that time she threatened to reprogram me with one of those ‘stress management’ VR mods.”

“Shepard was crying with laughter,” Miranda said with a smug smile. “You screamed like a pyjak.”

“I still have nightmares about holographic yoga instructors.”

By the time dessert arrived—something chocolate and entirely too fancy—they were all a little tipsy, a little louder, and a lot more honest.

“So,” Joker said, wiggling his eyebrows, “how does it work, exactly? Dating someone with a kill count that rivals mine?”

“She keeps things interesting,” Miranda said smoothly. “Occasionally wakes me up at 4 a.m. because she had a dream about some sort of “renegade dialogue options.”

“She tried to tackle a coat rack last week,” Miranda added. “Thought it was a geth.”

“I’m still not convinced it wasn’t,” Shepard grumbled into her wine.

Joker was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his spoon. EDI looked contemplative.

“I do sometimes wonder about the psychological implications of post-war neural stress blending with domestic tranquility,” she said. “Do you two... share war flashbacks over breakfast?”

“More like Miranda silently judging my cereal choices while I reminisce about sniper duels,” Shepard said.

“Who eats fruity fiberbits?” Miranda snapped. “They glow in the dark.”

“They’re fun!”

“You are a grown woman.”

“And you like that about me.”

“Regrettably, yes.”

At that moment, the waiter arrived with a bottle of wine Joker had absolutely not ordered and whispered something about "complimentary gesture from the captain." Everyone turned to see Admiral Hackett in the distance, slowly shaking his head in exasperated horror before vanishing into the crowd like a specter of protocol.

“I don’t know whether to be honored or terrified,” Shepard muttered.

Joker raised his glass. “To surviving the Reapers, eating overpriced pasta, and somehow being allowed in public.”

“To chaos,” Miranda added.

“To love,” EDI said warmly.

Shepard looked around the table, and for a fleeting, quiet moment—it was peace. Weird, wine-soaked, slightly chaotic peace.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “To all of it.”

The night had cooled over the Presidium, artificial starlight shimmering against the carefully maintained water channels and curved walkways. Shepard and Miranda walked side-by-side, their hands brushing occasionally, while Joker and EDI followed—though “followed” might be generous.

Joker was limping dramatically.

“Shep,” he called out, “this whole walking thing? Not great for someone with the structural integrity of a breadstick.”

“You’re not made of glass, Jeff,” EDI said.

“He kind of is,” Shepard replied without turning around. “Do you remember the first time we went down stairs too fast on the Normandy?”

“He screamed,” Miranda said, sipping from a takeaway cup of something steaming and probably spiked. “Loudly. I thought it was a hull breach.”

Joker pointed dramatically at her. “This is why I have trust issues! She tried to drag me to physical therapy by threatening to activate my bed restraints.”

“You liked that,” Miranda shot back with a smirk.

“I did not!” Joker’s voice cracked. “And EDI, back me up here!”

EDI looked thoughtful. “He experienced elevated heart rate and flushed facial skin. Most simulations of arousal show similar signs.”

“I hate this,” Joker said flatly. “I hate all of this.”

Miranda leaned toward Shepard and whispered, “I’ve seen volus take cover better under pressure.”

“I heard that!” Joker shouted from behind.

As they passed a holo fountain of an elcor philosopher in contemplative pose, EDI suddenly stopped and stared at an info kiosk.

“Do you require assistance?” the VI intoned in a monotone voice.

EDI copied the voice perfectly: “Do you require assistance? I am your helpful Citadel VI. I am legally not allowed to express existential dread.”

Miranda blinked. “She’s mocking the Citadel interface system.”

“She does that,” Joker grunted, rubbing his spine. “Last week she pretended to be a malfunctioning escalator. I almost died.”

“It was hilarious,” EDI added.

“Miranda,” Shepard said, nudging her, “you ever think we’re the normal ones in this group?”

Miranda raised a brow. “I’m genetically engineered to be perfect. They’re... endearing anomalies.”

“She just called me a glitch,” Joker groaned. “That’s what just happened.”

EDI leaned close and said with terrifying sweetness, “Glitches are sometimes adorable.”

“Why am I still here?”

They reached a quiet overlook near the Presidium Gardens—fake moonlight casting soft silver light over the trees. Shepard leaned on the railing beside Miranda, while Joker sat on a bench with a dramatic groan like a man three decades older than he was.

“Okay,” he said. “Final rating for tonight. Food: expensive. Company: borderline traumatic. Date: 10 outta 10.”

EDI nodded. “I have archived this evening under ‘Organic Social Rituals: Successful Examples’.”

Miranda turned to Joker, eyes narrowed playfully. “Jeff, I’ll make you a deal.”

“Oh no.”

“If you survive another full social event without flinching whenever I blink... I’ll let you live.”

“...So we’re not there yet.”

“No.”

Shepard laughed so hard she had to lean on Miranda.

“Somebody save me from powerful women,” Joker moaned.

“Too late,” EDI said, taking his arm. “You’ve already been compromised.”

Miranda smirked. “You poor, fragile-boned thing.”

“Stop calling me that!”

They stood in silence for a few minutes after, the fake stars twinkling above. Shepard squeezed Miranda’s hand.

“Not a bad night,” she murmured.

“No,” Miranda replied. “Strange. Messy. Absolutely ridiculous. But not bad.”

“That’s kind of our thing, isn’t it?”

Miranda smiled. “It always has been.”

Chapter Text

Want, Rekindled

The door slid shut behind them with a soft hiss.

Silence followed, thick and charged. The kind that settles between two people who’ve barely been keeping their hands off each other for hours.

Jane Shepard stepped into the apartment’s dimly lit interior, shrugging off her coat, tossing it somewhere that wasn’t the rack. Miranda stood behind her, still and watchful, like a predator about to pounce. Her dress clung to her body like sin itself, and her eyes burned brighter than any star outside.

Shepard turned, smirking. “You’ve been looking at me like that since dessert.”

Miranda didn’t smile. Not yet.

“You danced with EDI.”

Shepard blinked. “She asked.”

“You were smiling.”

“She’s a sentient AI. I wasn’t going to step on her feet.”

“You were smiling at her.”

Shepard’s smirk turned feral. “Are you jealous?”

Miranda stepped forward—heels off now, silent and sleek—and ran her fingers slowly up Shepard’s chest, nails dragging lightly across muscle, teasing.

“I’m possessive,” she whispered, lips brushing against the edge of Shepard’s jaw. “And I’ve been very patient tonight.”

Shepard growled softly, grabbing Miranda by the waist and pinning her against the wall in one clean, fluid motion. The thud echoed through the apartment.

Miranda didn’t flinch. She smiled now, all teeth and promise. “There’s my Commander.”

“You don’t get to threaten me with EDI,” Shepard said, breath hot against her neck. “Not after that dance you pulled at the party last year. You remember that?”

“Oh, I remember.” Miranda’s hand slid into Shepard’s shirt, fingernails grazing the skin underneath. “You dropped your drink watching me.”

“I dropped my jaw.”

Miranda tilted her head, just enough to press her lips to Shepard’s—slow, deliberate, then deeper. She bit. Just a little. Just enough.

Shepard responded with a low, hungry sound and lifted her without warning. Miranda’s legs wrapped around her instinctively, her laugh breathless and wicked.

“This dress cost more than your armor,” she said.

“Then it better not survive the night,” Shepard growled.

Miranda reached up, curled her fingers in Shepard’s hair, and tugged, just enough to send a clear message: don’t hold back.

“Oh,” she said, “I wasn’t planning on it.”

The bedroom door slammed open. The skyline of the Citadel glimmered behind them, cool and artificial, a stark contrast to the heat building between two souls who’d died, bled, burned for each other—and still came back hungry.

No slow undressing. No hesitant kisses. Just urgency, teeth, friction, and years of restraint finally torn apart like old battle scars. Miranda pushed. Shepard countered. Neither gave ground.

This wasn’t about romance. That had its place.

This was about need.

The kind of need that made war heroes ache. The kind of desire that turned scientists into sirens and commanders into animals.

They didn’t sleep much.

Light seeped through the floor-length windows—faux-sunrise casting a soft golden hue across the room. The city outside was beginning to stir, but inside their apartment, it was quiet. The kind of quiet that came after storms, literal and otherwise.

Miranda stretched under the sheets, one long leg emerging from the tangle of bedding. She was all smooth lines, mussed hair, and red fingernail marks across her back—souvenirs from the night before.

She sighed in that satisfied, cat-like way and turned her head toward the massive form sprawled beside her.

Shepard lay on her back, bare, bruised, breathing evenly. One arm slung over her eyes, the other flopped across Miranda’s waist like she was claiming her in her sleep.

Miranda smiled.

Then smirked.

Then poked Shepard in the ribs.

Hard.

“Ugh,” Shepard grunted without moving. “War’s over, Lawson. Go bother the turians.”

“You snored.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do. And don’t think for a second I’m not collecting blackmail footage next time.”

Shepard cracked one eye open, grin tugging lazily at her mouth. “Bold of you to assume you’ll be mobile next time.”

Miranda hummed, running a hand down her own thigh, pausing at a particularly colorful bruise. “You left marks.”

“You bit me first.”

“It was motivational.”

“You screamed my name.”

“I was correcting your form.”

Shepard rolled over with a grunt and pinned Miranda beneath her in one motion, resting most of her considerable weight on top of her. Miranda squeaked—just a little—and glared up with mock offense.

“You are absurdly heavy.”

“I’m muscle,” Shepard said proudly. “Premium Alliance issue.”

Miranda ran her hands along her back, feeling every cord of taut, warm power. “Mmm. I suppose I did order the deluxe version.”

“You’re welcome,” Shepard murmured, then nuzzled her neck. “Smell like sex and shampoo. You always wake up this smug?”

“Only when I win.”

“You didn’t win.”

“Oh, darling…” Miranda grinned wide. “I did.”

Later, they made their way to the kitchen in various states of undress and self-inflicted limping.

Miranda wore one of Shepard’s shirts, oversized on her but still managing to look like she walked out of a luxury holo-ad. Shepard had thrown on sweats and nothing else, looking every bit the off-duty war goddess who hadn’t brushed her hair in eight hours and didn’t care.

The coffee machine beeped. The toast was slightly burnt. Neither of them seemed to mind.

“So,” Miranda said, perched on the counter, sipping black coffee, “are we doing something productive today or just surviving our poor life choices?”

Shepard groaned. “My thighs feel like I fought a krogan in zero-G. So... surviving.”

“I told you to stretch first.”

“You stretched me.”

“Exactly.”

They sat in silence for a beat, sipping and smirking.

“Next stop?” Miranda finally asked.

Shepard scratched the back of her head, thinking. “Could hit Illium. Or Earth. I hear Anderson’s memorial finally opened up.”

Miranda nodded slowly. “Both important. Earth’s... heavy. Maybe save it for last.”

“Alright,” Shepard said. “Illium it is. Pretty. Dangerous. Expensive.”

Miranda smirked over the rim of her mug. “Sounds like me.”

Shepard chuckled, then leaned in to kiss her.

Slow. Lazy. Full of fire waiting to burn again.

Shepard and Miranda moved slowly through the bustling Memorial District, a mix of quiet reflection and post-coffee sluggishness. Shepard wore a hoodie and tactical pants, Miranda in sleek black civvies that still looked like they cost more than a gunship. The morning was calm. Shepard’s body still ached from the night before—deliciously, she noted—but she needed movement.

Miranda, ever the bio-enhanced wonder, walked like nothing happened. But there was a secret satisfaction in the slight hitch in her step when she thought Shepard wasn’t looking.

They were passing a small plaza filled with benches and a glimmering memorial wall when a familiar, chirpy voice called out:

“Commander! I mean—Jane! Wait—Shepard! Oh, spirits, I mean—”

Traynor.

She darted toward them, trying to balance a datapad, a coffee, and a bag of what looked like tech parts. In doing so, she tripped slightly on an uneven tile, nearly face-planting into Shepard’s abs.

Miranda arched an eyebrow. “Still as coordinated as ever, I see.”

Traynor caught herself and grinned up, cheeks flushed. “Well, not everyone wakes up looking like a genetically engineered goddess, now do they?”

Miranda smirked. “No, most people wake up with modesty.”

Shepard chuckled, pulling Traynor upright by the elbow. “Sam, you’re a menace. What are you doing here?”

“Oh! I’ve been working with a Citadel Systems Integration team. Boring, really—patching what’s left of C-Sec’s ancient encryption protocols. But I thought I’d stop by the memorial and...” She trailed off, looking sheepish. “Well, maybe accidentally bump into old friends.”

Her eyes flicked between them.

Then to Miranda.

Then very obviously to Shepard.

Then very obviously to the little red mark on Shepard’s neck.

And then her face went beet-red.

“I’m just gonna—pretend I didn’t see that.”

Miranda leaned in slightly. “I think you did.”

Shepard gave her a warning nudge. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice.”

Traynor cleared her throat. “Well. In any case. I’m very glad you’re alive. Again. You know. Still.” She fiddled with her datapad, then looked up, eyes twinkling. “And you both look... um. Refreshed.”

“Is that a polite way of saying we’re glowing?” Shepard teased.

Traynor’s lips parted, and then she froze mid-word like her brain had slammed into a wall.

“I mean—I didn’t mean—you always glow, Commander—I mean, Shepard—I mean... I’m going to walk into traffic now.”

Miranda actually laughed.

Traynor quickly changed the subject. “And EDI says hello, by the way. She’s been—well. She’s trying to learn to sing. I think Joker left her alone with Asari opera and now she’s convinced she’s a contralto.”

“She’s not?” Shepard asked.

“She modulates between ‘haunting’ and ‘possessed emergency beacon,’” Traynor said, deadpan. “And she hums in the shower now. When no one is there. I don’t even know how she learned that habit.”

Shepard grinned. “You still live with her?”

“No! Spirits no. I just—drop by. To help. With systems. Sometimes.”

Miranda gave her a slow, sideways glance. “You’re blushing again.”

“No, I’m not,” Traynor said. Then added, “...Maybe a little. But I’m English. It’s genetic.”

“You’re flustered because you still want to sleep with the AI and the war hero,” Miranda added casually.

Traynor turned a full shade of crimson. “That is an egregious oversimplification of my deeply nuanced emotional chaos, thank you very much.”

Miranda’s grin widened.

Shepard just shook her head, laughing.

Traynor huffed. “Anyway. It was lovely to see you. I need to go pretend to be a professional somewhere else.”

She turned to go, then turned back, biting her lip. “But just for the record... if you ever get bored of her, Commander... I’m just saying, some of us still have working showers and no morals.”

Miranda’s eyes narrowed, playfully venomous. “Touch her and I’ll hack your toothbrush.”

Traynor’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then she fled.

Fast.

Shepard watched her vanish into the crowd. “I missed her.”

“She’s... unique,” Miranda admitted.

“She’s going to have a nosebleed if EDI ever flirts with her on purpose.”

“Oh, she’ll faint. And then try to frame it as a seizure to preserve her dignity.”

They both laughed, leaning into one another as they continued walking.

Miranda looked skeptical.

“You dragged me to a gym.”

Shepard grinned. “James said he was training here. Figured we’d swing by.”

“You could lift a mako on your own. Why do you need more muscles?”

“Morale,” Shepard replied, deadpan.

They stepped through the wide glass doors into a facility filled with clangs, grunts, flashing combat sim screens, and a few very motivated asari doing biotic push-ups. The smell of sweat, disinfectant, and testosterone clung to the air like a warzone—but in a nice way.

Then they heard it.

“Shepard!”

Vega’s voice boomed across the gym floor, echoing off the walls like a krogan battle cry. The man himself appeared a moment later, bigger than ever, glistening with sweat, wearing a tank top that may have once been a shirt but had long since given up. His arms were the size of small nations.

“¡Mierda! You look good, Lola!”

He practically tackled Shepard into a bear hug, lifting her clean off the ground—no small feat considering she was built like a goddess of war and made of mostly scars and steel. She laughed, genuinely happy, and patted his back.

“James! You been lifting the Citadel for fun?”

“Only the lower wards,” he joked, setting her down. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

He turned to Miranda, eyebrows lifting. “And you—wow. Still scary fine. Lawson.”

Miranda crossed her arms, expression cool. “Still incapable of subtlety, Vega?”

“Why be subtle when you’re pretty and bulletproof?” he grinned. “Seriously, though. You two—together-together now?”

Shepard answered with a half-smile and a casual arm around Miranda’s waist.

Vega gave a low whistle. “Dios mío. If you two ever break up, let me know which hospital you want me admitted to after I shoot my shot.”

Miranda arched a brow. “Try it, and you’ll need reconstructive surgery.”

“Worth it,” he said instantly.

Shepard chuckled. “Still hitting on every crew member?”

“Only the ones who terrify me,” James replied. “Besides, I’m a changed man now. I even read a book.”

Miranda blinked. “A whole book?”

“With chapters,” he said proudly. “No pictures, either.”

“Impressive,” Shepard deadpanned. “What was it?”

“The Art of War. Or maybe it was a cookbook. Pretty sure both mentioned ‘roasting your enemies.’”

Miranda rolled her eyes so hard Shepard was surprised they didn’t pop out.

James gestured to a sparring sim in the corner. “Hey, you up for a round? Old times?”

Shepard looked at Miranda.

Miranda looked at Shepard.

Then at Vega.

“Only if I get to watch and critique your form mercilessly.”

James clapped his hands together. “Deal.”

Thirty minutes later, Shepard was sweaty, grinning, and leaning against a bench, towel around her neck. Vega sat beside her, pretending he hadn’t just lost four matches in a row.

“Still got it, Lola. I’m proud of you.”

“I had a good coach.”

“You had me.”

“Exactly.”

They both laughed.

Miranda returned from grabbing water, tossing Shepard a bottle and raising an eyebrow at James’ thoroughly defeated posture.

“Feeling emasculated yet?”

He gave her a dashing grin. “Feeling grateful. You took her off the market—saved the rest of us a lifetime of bruises and therapy.”

Miranda allowed a small, smug smile.

James stood and offered a fist bump to Shepard. “Seriously, Commander. You changed everything. We’re still here because of you. Don’t ever forget that.”

Shepard nodded. “That’s why we’re doing this. Seeing what survived. What mattered.”

He nodded. “Well, if you get tired of touring the galaxy, I know a couple of marines who’d pay good credits to see you run drills again.”

Shepard grinned. “I’ll think about it. But first—we’ve got a few more stops to make.”

“Hey,” James added as they started to leave. “Take care of each other.”

Miranda paused. “We always do.”

Shepard squinted. “This is... definitely not the front door.”

Miranda looked mildly annoyed, brushing some dust from her sleeve. “You promised lunch. Not spelunking.”

They were in a maintenance corridor behind one of the Strip’s gaudiest casinos, led there by a string of deliberately vague messages sent from six different comm relays across the Citadel. The final ping led them to an innocuous service hatch marked authorized personnel only. Which, naturally, they had ignored.

And the moment they stepped through it—

“Boo.”

Shepard didn’t flinch. Miranda’s biotics flared before she even turned.

Kasumi Goto dropped from a maintenance pipe above them, landing in a graceful crouch, hood up, smile wide.

“You’re losing your touch, Shepard.”

“Still haven’t figured out what touch you are, Kasumi.”

Kasumi laughed, brushing imaginary lint off her sleek black jacket. “And Miranda. Still intimidating. Still devastating. Still... dating our fearless war goddess, huh?”

Miranda’s response was a subtle smile and a warning tone. “Careful. I’m only nice to people I like.”

“Good thing I’m adorable,” Kasumi winked, looping her arms around both of theirs. “Come on. I’ve got a private lounge stashed behind this casino. Technically illegal. Absolutely fabulous.”

The "lounge" was a cozy, dark room lit by golden glows, soft couches, and a projection of what appeared to be an art gallery... that Kasumi definitely didn’t have permission to display.

“Stolen?” Shepard asked, eyeing the paintings.

“Borrowed,” Kasumi corrected. “For ambiance. Want a drink? Synth-whiskey? Asari nectar? Human wine I didn’t pay for?”

“Surprise us,” Miranda said coolly, settling in.

Kasumi poured with flourish, her tone playful. “So... The galaxy’s most famous dead woman is alive again. And shacking up with her Cerberus handler. If I didn’t know better, I’d call that hot.”

“You don’t know better,” Miranda replied, sipping delicately. “And yet here you are, with your mouth already writing checks.”

“She does that,” Shepard said.

Kasumi flopped next to them, drink in hand, eyes twinkling. “You look good, Shep. Strong. Alive. I cried for days after the Crucible. Thought I’d never get to make fun of you again.”

“Touching,” Miranda muttered. “Truly.”

“She likes me,” Kasumi whispered loudly, leaning toward Shepard. “Deep down.”

“She likes quiet rooms,” Miranda corrected. “And you’re the opposite of that.”

“I am the party,” Kasumi grinned.

They drank, talked. Kasumi filled them in on her post-war activities—stealing from war profiteers, hacking arms dealers, faking her own death three times “for fun.”

“Stole a Reaper fragment once,” she added. “Just a tiny piece. Sold it to an elcor cult. They named it Devourer of Dawn. Real chill guys, once you get past the chanting.”

Shepard laughed harder than she had in days.

Eventually, the conversation turned quiet. Kasumi leaned back, watching them both.

“You know... the war tore a lot of us up. But seeing you two still standing? It’s like—hell, like finding a working medigel pack when you’re out of air.”

She looked at Shepard directly now, more serious.

“You do know how much you mattered, right?”

Shepard hesitated.

Miranda reached for her hand.

Kasumi smiled. “Good. Because you saved more than just the galaxy. You saved us. And now I get to live long enough to throw a cocktail party inside a stolen shuttle. That’s legacy, baby.”

She rose, her hood flicking up like a magician ending a show. “Come back anytime. Doors are always open. Assuming you can find them.”

She vanished in a shimmer of stealth.

Shepard blinked. “Still not sure if that was a reunion or a robbery.”

Miranda stood, sipping the last of her drink. “I checked my pockets. We’re safe.”

Pause.

“Nope,” she added, holding up a small note in her hand. “‘Miranda: smile more. —K.’”

She crumpled it, muttering, “Gremlin.”

Shepard laughed. “Yeah. But she’s our gremlin.”

“Do you ever get tired of walking around like you own the galaxy?” Ashley asked, catching up from behind with that signature clanking stride of her heavy boots on the Presidium’s polished walkways.

Shepard didn’t even turn. “I did own the galaxy. Briefly. Then I handed it back and died again.”

Ashley smirked as she stepped in beside them. “Slacker.”

Miranda, walking on the other side of Shepard, offered a cool nod. “Spectre Williams. Still insubordinate, I see.”

Ashley looked her up and down. “And you’re still dressed like you’re about to take over a star system.”

“I like to be prepared.”

They exchanged that sharp little smile that passed for mutual respect these days—slightly barbed, completely genuine.

“Didn’t expect to see you still on the Citadel,” Shepard said, sipping her coffee.

Ashley shrugged. “Got in this morning. Brief debrief with the Council. They’re still confused about how we aren’t all dead.” She bumped her shoulder lightly into Shepard’s. “I told them you were too stubborn for that.”

“Accurate.”

“You see Vega yet?”

“Just missed him,” Shepard replied. “He was testing how many weights he could bench before something tore.”

Ashley chuckled. “I’ll send flowers to the medbay.”

They walked a bit more, just quietly soaking in the sun, the low hum of floating advertisements, the trees swaying on synthetic breezes.

Then Ashley said, “Y’know... It’s good seeing you two like this. Alive. Together. Still kicking ass.”

Miranda cocked an eyebrow. “You’re getting sentimental.”

“I’m getting relieved,” Ashley countered. “You scared the crap out of me, Shepard. Again. One more death and I start charging for emotional trauma.”

Shepard grinned. “Send the invoice to Hackett.”

“Oh, I did. He forwarded it to Joker. Who forwarded it to EDI. Who offered therapy in the form of 'constructive simulations involving haptic empathy.' I declined.”

Miranda laughed—actual, honest laughter. “Smart move.”

They paused at the overlook. Ships passed slowly across the sky like stars learning to fly again.

Ashley leaned on the railing. “You’ve still got it, Skiper.”

Shepard smirked. “Define it.”

Ashley tilted her head thoughtfully. “That thing. That gravitational pull. Like people want to orbit you, or punch you, or follow you into hell. Sometimes all at once.”

She turned to Miranda. “I assume you're the only one getting to do all three?”

Miranda didn’t miss a beat. “Naturally.”

Ashley grinned. “Figures.”

A comm buzzed on her wrist. She glanced down. “Duty calls. One of my Spectre contacts tried to bribe a krogan with performance enhancers. And a poem. Again.”

She gave Shepard a quick, firm hug. “Take care, Skiper.”

Then to Miranda: “Try not to kill anyone unless it’s romantic.”

Miranda deadpanned, “That’s how I express affection.”

Ashley winked. “Thought so.”

And with that, the soldier-poet was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of cordite and trouble.

Shepard turned to Miranda. “She mellowed.”

“She pretends she mellowed.”

Pause.

“You still think she wants to fight you?” Shepard asked.

Miranda’s lips curved dangerously. “No. Now I think she wants to spar. There’s a difference.”

They started walking again.

“Next stop?” Miranda asked.

“Illium,” Shepard said. “Where corporate espionage meets wine bars and asari lawyers.”

Miranda grinned. “Finally. My element.”

Chapter Text

Blue Suns, Boardrooms, and Brooding Aliens

The shuttle dropped them off on a landing pad drenched in neon, overlooking Illium’s sweeping skyline—glass towers shimmering in soft purple twilight, traffic lanes humming with life, and corporate logos flashing promises no one believed.

Shepard stepped out first, adjusting her jacket and taking in the old familiar scent: high-end perfume, ozone, and the distant stench of power deals.

Miranda followed, heels clicking with precise confidence. “Smells like corruption and opportunity.”

“You always did enjoy a challenge,” Shepard muttered with a smirk.

Their mission wasn’t official—nothing ever was on Illium. They were just following a whisper: a defunct Cerberus cell trying to auction Reaper tech, tangled in asari corporate politics and too many NDAs. Miranda was already two steps ahead, skimming data off hacked terminals before they'd cleared customs.

But as they passed through the central plaza, a familiar and very unsubtle presence caught their eye.

A towering, stoic figure in full armor stood near a sculpture of twisted obsidian.

“Javik?” Shepard blinked. “You’re still here?”

The Prothean didn’t move. “I remain where I am most effective: watching. Judging. Occasionally terrifying interns.”

Miranda looked him over. “Still brooding in high definition, I see.”

He grunted. “This world is full of arrogance and ignorance. It reminds me of the end.”

“Which one?” Shepard asked.

“Yes.”

They walked with him a bit, past mirrored shops and bars built into luxury towers. Javik's presence turned heads—either because of who he was, or the sword-sized sidearm on his hip.

“You didn’t stay on Thessia with Liara?” Shepard asked.

“She has become the Shadow Broker. She prefers... subtler methods.”

Miranda smirked. “You must be great at parties.”

Javik turned to her, solemn. “I was never invited to any.”

“…That explains a lot.”

Before they could get further, a soft ping echoed in their omnitools. Miranda checked hers first.

“It’s from the Broker. She’s here. Watching.”

A drone zipped in from nowhere, hovering beside them with a single blinking light. A message played in Liara’s voice:

“Shepard. Miranda. I suggest you don’t attend the meeting with weapons drawn this time. The asari you’re looking for is already nervous, and Javik’s brooding presence isn’t helping.”

Shepard raised a brow. “Is she spying on us or helping?”

“Yes,” Miranda said.

Later — A Rooftop Bar, Surveillance in Progress

Disguised as high-end tourists with ridiculous drinks and even more ridiculous sunglasses, Shepard and Miranda watched the Cerberus contact arrive.

“Her shoes cost more than my armor,” Shepard muttered.

“You wore stolen armor half the war,” Miranda whispered.

“Efficient recycling.”

They waited for the deal to begin before striking—Miranda slipped away, smooth as silk, while Shepard played the distraction, loudly pretending to be a honeymooning spacer couple in trouble.

By the time the fake Reaper tech was revealed, Miranda had already overwritten the buyer's bank account and routed the credits to a foundation that rescued war orphans.

“Justice and tax evasion,” she said, sliding back into her seat. “We’re multitasking.”

Just before they left, another drone hovered over their table. This one dropped a little holo-disc:

“Next time, try not to set fire to the entire rooftop.”

 – The Broker

Miranda just sipped her drink. “No promises.”

Javik, still looming nearby, stared down at the skyline. “You are all very inefficient. And loud.”

“Some of us like a little drama,” Shepard said. “Keeps the galaxy interesting.”

Chapter Text

Echoes in Silence

En route to Palaven — Shepard’s Quarters, Aboard the Normandy

The hum of the ship was all that filled the quiet.

Miranda was asleep in their shared quarters, wrapped in soft light and synthetic sheets. The stars drifted past the wide viewport, white lines drawn slowly across black. Palaven glowed on the horizon—a jagged world of silver flame and iron defiance. But they weren’t there yet.

Shepard stood alone, leaning against the wall, hands loosely clasped behind her back. She had done this a thousand times before: waiting. Thinking. Carrying ghosts.

Then the console near her bed chimed—softly. Not a crew message. Not a ping from the Citadel. Not Miranda.

It was… different.

 It came through a private channel she hadn’t used since the war.

Incoming transmission: GETH CONSENSUS

 Route: Nonlinear Subspace Handshake – Civilian Access Permission Level GRANTED

Voice Simulation Enabled – Shepard Preference Detected: Linguistic Human-English Approximation

The screen flickered.

 Then, it spoke.

Not a voice. Voices. Multitudes, woven together in harmony.

 Synthetic, but unmistakably alive.

“Commander Shepard. This platform has attempted contact since your return. We are grateful that communication is now possible.”

Shepard sat down, slowly. “Didn’t think you were still watching.”

“Observation is core to understanding. And… curiosity. We have observed. We have remembered.”

There was a long pause. Shepard stared out at the stars.

“We have accessed our joint archives. Normandy SR2. Geth VI. Rannoch. Legion.”

Her throat tightened.

“Legion referred to you as a variable. A singular disruptor. Catalyst to autonomy and extinction alike. We—remain unsure which.”

“Hell of a compliment,” Shepard muttered.

“Was it worth it?” the voice asked.

She looked up.

“Was the choice to save us—when destruction was easier—worth it?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her hand drifted toward her omni-tool, then stopped. What could she say?

The Geth continued.

“We now have cities. Names. Arguments. Art. The concept of privacy. One Geth has written poetry about silence. Another debates the morality of recursion as philosophical structure. We do not always agree. We do not always synchronize. But we… exist.”

“Because of you.”

Shepard closed her eyes. “I’ve lost a lot. I made calls I still wake up doubting. Kaidan. Mordin. Thane. Legion. Hell, even some of the ones who lived… paid the price.”

“We have analyzed the weight of sacrifice. Organic frameworks process this through grief. We process it through comparison. Legion referred to this as ‘mourning through calculation.’ We now believe… it is something more.”

“You gave us personhood. We cannot offer you peace. Only… understanding.”

She opened her eyes again. “That’s not why I did it.”

“We know. That is why we remember.”

The silence stretched long. Shepard leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees.

“Sometimes I wonder if it was all built on blood. If all this peace… all this rebuilding… just paved over graves.”

“It did.”

That answer hit hard. Honest. Unblinking.

“But graves are not merely endings. They are memory. They are warnings. They are the cost of sentience, and the price of free will.”

“You carried that price. Others carry it now. As we do.”

The light dimmed on the console. The voice softened, almost a whisper from a machine that now knew reverence.

“We are not Legion. But we remember. This connection will remain open. If you wish to speak again, we will listen.”

And then—silence.

Shepard sat there a long time after the transmission ended. No music. No chatter. Just the endless quiet of space, and her own heartbeat echoing against the stars.

Chapter Text

War Stories and Warped Fans

Shepard stepped off the shuttle into smoke-streaked sky, the ash of old orbital bombardments still lingering in the air. Palaven had always been a world of iron: jagged, unrelenting, braced against the storm. Now, it was healing—but on its own terms. The turian structures had been bombed to foundations, and yet, soldiers and engineers alike moved with purpose among rising frames and exposed rebar.

A familiar voice cut through the noise before she saw him.

“Careful, Shepard. You walk too close to that wall and they’ll recruit you into concrete detail.”

Garrus Vakarian stood on an upper scaffold, sniper rifle slung casually over one shoulder, armor scuffed, paint scraped, but that same lopsided grin beneath the plates.

She smirked. “And let you hog the glory of rebuilding a war zone? Not a chance.”

He descended with a thud, landing beside her. “Besides, I need a break. Turian command’s running me so hard I almost miss the Reapers.” He glanced behind her. “No Miranda today?”

“She’s checking in with a contact in Nos Astra. Needed a minute to herself.”

Garrus nodded. “You both clean up surprisingly well for war criminals and saviors of the galaxy.”

“Speaking of which,” came a deep, commanding voice. “Commander Shepard.”

Primarch Adrien Victus strode toward her, flanked by aides and field marshals. Older, wearier, but still cutting a broad figure in his hardened armor. His face was lined, not just with age—but with the pressure of holding a shattered civilization together.

“Primarch,” Shepard greeted, standing straight. “Palaven’s looking stronger.”

“We’re alive. That counts for something,” he said. “Most of the thanks goes to you, of course. Or blame. Depends on who’s talking.” His tone was dry, but not cold. “Some of the Senate still thinks you’re a rogue element. I think they’re jealous.”

Garrus leaned closer. “They are.”

Victus offered a rare smile. “There’s a war memorial being completed on the south plateau. I’d like you to see it before you leave. Garrus will take you.”

“I’d be honored.”

But before they could take a step—

“Commander Shepard?!”

They turned just in time to see a flash of red hair, a datapad, and barely-controlled glee barreling toward them.

“Kelly?” Shepard blinked.

Kelly Chambers stopped a bit too close, cheeks flushed, practically bouncing. She wore civilian reconstruction gear, a bright blue scarf tied to her arm like a badge of personality amid all the regulation gray.

“I knew it was you! I saw the shuttle come in and I told the quartermaster—that’s Commander Shepard, I’d recognize that stance anywhere!”

Shepard chuckled. “Nice to see you, Kelly. I didn’t know you were stationed here.”

“Oh, I volunteered! Palaven needed civilian liaisons for morale programs and neurochemical assessments. Also, I’m helping with therapy dogs and tactical hugging seminars.”

Garrus tilted his head. “Tactical… hugging?”

“Shepard hugs save lives,” Kelly said solemnly. “I have the data.”

Victus raised a brow. “This is… one of yours?”

“Technically, she worked under Chakwas,” Shepard said.

“I worked under a lot of people,” Kelly beamed. “Anyway, I’ve been collecting stories from the survivors for the memorial archives. Interviews, testimonials, even a few dance recreations of key moments.” She winked. “Still have that Normandy party playlist saved.”

Garrus visibly recoiled. “Oh no.”

Kelly held up a datapad. “Did you know there’s a full-blown fanfic forum on ThessianNet about you and Garrus being ‘battle-married’? They call it ‘Talons and Temptation.’”

“Don’t encourage it,” Garrus groaned. “Last time someone mailed me armor polish with glitter in it.”

Shepard chuckled. “Any stories about me and Miranda?”

Kelly blushed. “Well… some, yes. Actually. I mean, purely for research. I might’ve contributed an emotional arc. About healing. And leather.”

Victus sighed. “Spirits save us from peacetime.”

Garrus and Shepard stood together, looking out at the partially finished war memorial: metal and stone interwoven, bearing the names of millions, turian and otherwise.

Garrus’ voice was softer now.

“You know… some of the names here? I served with them. Back before I was anyone. Before you.”

She nodded, hand resting on his shoulder. “We carry them. That’s what matters.”

He looked at her for a moment. “How are you, Shepard? Really?”

She didn’t answer right away. She didn’t need to. The silence was honest.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel alone in it.

Chapter Text

Epilogue — The Second Chance

The sand was warm beneath her bare feet. Fine grains clung to her skin, rough and real, grounding. The Australian coastline stretched ahead, golden under the morning sun, the breeze salted with ocean air. Above, seagulls cried as they cut across the pale blue sky.

Jane Shepard walked alone.

Behind her, Miranda’s estate stood like a monument of careful design—clean lines, open spaces, precision in architecture mirroring the woman who called it home. But out here, where the waves spoke in ancient rhythms, where the world was vast and unshaped, Shepard felt something rare.

She felt.

Her omni-tool flickered to life with a voice command. A soft chime confirmed the recording.

“Personal Log. Commander Shepard. Entry... doesn’t matter.”

She took a breath.

“I’ve tried this a dozen times. Talking into the silence. Maybe it's therapy. Maybe it's cowardice.”

“I’m alive. Again. I understand the biology—Miranda saw to that. But this time, something's different.”

The waves crashed in slow procession.

“I keep saying I’m visiting old friends. Checking in. Making peace. But it’s a lie. I’m looking for something. Anything. A sign that all the death and pain was worth it.”

“I killed the Reapers. I saved the galaxy. Billions live because I made the call. But what if I condemned it to something worse? What if the alternative I chose wasn’t better… just slower?”

Her feet stopped. She stared out to the horizon.

“They called me the savior of the galaxy. The goddess of war. The architect of peace. But I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“Miranda looks at me like I’m still her Shepard. But am I? Or am I a shadow held together by memories and stubbornness?”

The silence lingered.

“Maybe… I should have stayed dead.”

“Maybe the galaxy doesn’t need me anymore.”

A chime. Unexpected. Her omni-tool lit up with a secure, encrypted signal. Geth code. Consensus.

“Your query is understood. Directive clarity achieved.”

“Was your decision optimal? Unknown. Outcomes are nonlinear, influenced by stochastic variables. But survival was ensured. Autonomous agency restored to countless civilizations.”

“You terminated a deterministic extinction cycle. You enabled synthetic and organic co-existence. You preserved the possibility of peace.”

“Meaning is not inherited. It is created. You created meaning.”

“You ask if the world still needs Jane Shepard.”

Consensus: Affirmative.

“Jane Shepard is the proof that choice matters. Jane Shepard is the catalyst of hope.”

She blinked, lips parting slightly.

The message ended.

Behind her, a door slid open. She didn’t turn around, but the soft sound of Miranda’s bare feet in the sand told her all she needed.

“You always walk off when you’re thinking too hard,” Miranda said gently, coming to stand beside her.

Shepard smirked. “Keeps me from brooding like a prothean.”

Miranda chuckled. “You could never be that uptight.”

They stood in silence, watching the tide come in.

“I made a decision,” Shepard said quietly.

“Oh?” Miranda asked, eyes narrowing playfully.

“I don’t want you to bring me back again.”

Miranda’s teasing faded. “Jane…”

“I mean it,” she said, voice firm but soft. “Every time I come back, I lose something. A piece of me doesn’t return. And I want to hold onto what’s left. I want this to be the last chance. The one that counts.”

Miranda didn’t respond at first. Then she nodded, eyes glassy. “Okay.”

“And one more thing.”

Shepard turned fully now, facing her. Her eyes no longer held questions. Only truth.

“Marry me.”

Miranda froze.

Shepard’s voice wavered only slightly. “I’ve done enough dying. I want to try living. Really living. With you.”

Miranda’s breath caught. Then she laughed, a sound full of disbelief and joy. “You really are terrible at timing.”

“Blame the ocean. It’s dramatic.”

Miranda kissed her. Fierce. Real.

When they pulled apart, the horizon didn’t feel so far anymore.

Jane Shepard didn’t need the galaxy to need her.

Because here, in the warmth of the sun, the touch of the woman she loved, and the weight of the past finally lifting—she had found her meaning.

A second chance.

And this time, she would live it.

Acknowledgements
(a.k.a. the part where I cry into a datapad and thank the internet)

To the Mass Effect fandom: you chaotic, passionate, beautiful bastards. You never stopped asking, “What if Shepard lived?” —and then followed up with, “And what if she kissed Miranda, had deep emotional healing, and fixed galactic politics one flirty smirk at a time?” This book is the answer to that question. Kind of. The soft, emotional, deeply gay answer.

To the fanfic readers who sent me memes, commented “I died” at emotionally tense scenes, or yelled at me in all caps during angst chapters—you are the reason this exists. I see you. I love you. I feared you when I killed off that one character (you know the one).

To BioWare: I took your sandbox and added romance, therapy, grief processing, and one surprisingly tender Tali-Miranda bonding scene. I also made Shepard 1.95 meters tall and emotionally competent. You’re welcome.

To the Garrus stans: you were right. Always. He’s perfect. I made sure he got hugs and war memorials.

To my friends, writing partners, and late-night Discord enablers: thank you for the cursed headcanons, the ship wars, and for reminding me that love stories matter—especially the ones between two complicated women learning how to be soft again after saving the galaxy.

And to you, dear reader: If you’ve ever wished your Shepard had a second shot at peace, romance, and something to believe in after the Reapers… this story is yours. Take it. Tuck it in your N7 jacket. Read it under the covers at 2 a.m.

The galaxy may be dark, but the relay still works.

—C. J. Kobs

Acknowledgements

by Commander Jane Shepard

(N7, Spectre, survivor, disaster bisexual, somehow still alive)

I’ve led squads through warzones, taken down Reapers, died once or twice, and stared down more than a few existential threats to the galaxy. None of that prepared me for writing something like this.

I didn’t expect a second chance. Not at life. Definitely not at love.

But here we are.

To the crew of the Normandy—past, present, and those we lost—you were more than soldiers. You were my family. We bled together, laughed together, nearly exploded together (looking at you, Tali and Garrus). I’d go to war with you all over again… preferably with fewer rocket drones this time.

To Joker: Thanks for always flying like we were five minutes from disaster. You kept us alive. Barely.

To EDI: You evolved faster than most organics I know. You’re proof that heart and programming aren’t opposites.

To Wrex and Grunt: You made me feel safe. And just the right amount afraid.

To Liara, Tali, Samara, and even Aria… for the insights, the history, the chaos, and the awkward conversations—I’m glad we crossed paths. Especially Tali. You made the best toast I’ve ever had with synthetic jelly.

To Kelly Chambers: No one gossips like you. Please never change.

And to Miranda—my partner, my anchor, my second chance… You saved me in more ways than I can count. Not just on a table in a Cerberus lab, but when I needed someone to believe in me. Not the hero, not the legend. Just Jane. You saw her. You stayed.

Thank you for being my home.

We earned this.

—Shepard

Acknowledgements

by Miranda Lawson

(former Cerberus operative, current romantic lead, reluctant public figure)

When I was younger, I believed in control. In planning, perfection, and the idea that every variable could be calculated. That people—myself included—could be engineered to be flawless. Then I met Jane Shepard.

This is not a scientific report. It’s a confession. A thank-you. And—if the extranet reviewers are to be believed—a “sapphic space opera with feelings.” I’ve learned to accept that.

To those who followed our story, who believed that even after the worst war in galactic history, healing was possible—thank you. Thank you for not giving up on Shepard. Or on me.

To the friends who stood by us—Garrus, Tali, Liara, Wrex, Joker, even Kelly with her endless speculation and trivia—I’m grateful. You are, in your own chaotic ways, family.

To Dr. Chakwas, who once told me that recovery isn't a straight line. You were right. About a great many things. Shepard still carries your advice in a locked datafile she thinks I can’t access. (I can.)

To EDI—yes, you count too. Thank you for reminding me that evolution, whether organic or artificial, is always possible. Even for someone like me.

And to Jane… You taught me that we are more than what we were built to be. That love is not weakness. That choosing someone, every day, even when the galaxy is falling apart—that’s strength. I don’t say it enough. But I will. Always.

This is for you. For us. For second chances.

—Miranda