Miranda had been putting off this mission report all day.

Shepard's messy Omega misadventures weren't the sort to be tailored into a tidy little narrative with a feel-good ending. She wasn't looking forward to penning the part about the Ardat Yakshi.

No doubt the dodgy mission would have her, not Shepard, on the receiving end of the Illusive Man's wrath. Sending 'bloody icon Commander Shepard' unarmed to act as bait for a murderous asari might not have been her idea, but the responsibility ultimately fell upon her shoulders.

Sure, Shepard had pulled it off. She always pulled it off. That's why they'd poured unfathomable resources into dragging her ass back from the dead.

Would Cerberus have done the same for one of their own? For me?

She let the thought come and go swiftly.

Armed with a datapad and an unapologetically-tall glass of white, she chugged a deep gulp, shuddered at the acidity, and headed up her document.

Omega: Commander Shepard (undercover) neutralises notorious serial murderer

qwertyuiop;lkjhgfdsazxcvbnm,!

Her train of thought ends with a petty mash of keys.

With a weak groan, she kicked off her heels and sank deeper into her chair. The cold floor felt like heaven against the puffy soles of her feet.

'EDI, check for new emails please,' she called in no particular direction, eager for distraction.

EDI illuminated the room as she came online, 'You have one new message from the commander. Shepard writes: "Got a minute or two? I'd appreciate your help with something. I'll explain when you get here. I'm in my room. Thanks, Shepard." End of message.'

Miranda sat in a moment of quiet confusion, 'EDI could you read that back again? Just the message.'

Upon the email's second reading, it was evidently still a request for her presence upstairs.

In Shepard's room.

She hadn't visited the Normandy's master suite since she'd signed-off on her initial inspection of the ship's interior. Precious few had received invitations to the commander's quarters. She'd held the occasional private meetings with her old guard crew members. Nothing more.

She downed another bitter gulp of wine, slipped her heels back on and swept her datapad under her arm.

'Please reply "on my way" and call the lift for me.'

The elevator doors closed and she instinctively hit record on her omni-tool. The Illusive Man wanted every word she and the commander exchanged to be recorded. To him, Shepard was just a big pile of credits running around the galaxy; it made sense to have 24-7 eyes and ears on his most expensive investment.

But Shepard had already tracked down and discretely destroyed every recording device that Cerberus had planted in her room. For now, the omni-tool would just have to do.

She approached Shepard's cabin and drew a shallow breath.

'It's Miranda,' she announced into the door's receiver.

Shepard didn't bother replying. Miranda jumped a little as the door swooshed open.

'Hey Lawson,' came Shepard's voice from somewhere within the suite.

She sounded tired. Croaky, even.

Miranda took a few tentative steps inside and stopped. Her mouth fell open at the state of it.

Strewth.

Shepard had arranged and perfectly-aligned matching sets of clothing across every available surface of her room. The commander's recreation-wear and uniform pieces were folded neatly beside each other along her bed, coffee table and sofa. Save a few sets of armour, this must have been every garment in the commander's wardrobe.

Even her shoes had been paired neatly along the edge of the bed. It was meticulous and mad.

Shepard herself stood dripping wet and red-faced beside her bed. She had clearly just stepped out of the shower. Her body was wrapped securely in a Cerberus-branded towel, and her hair had been stuffed into a tight bun, save a few renegade tendrils that hugged her forehead.

Miranda cleared her throat, 'What can I do for you?'

The commander opened her mouth to speak and hesitated, 'Are there any more of your bugs in this room, or have I dealt with them all?'

Her nostrils flared and she felt her ears prickle, 'Nope. You got them all.'

'Good. I sleep easier when I know that you aren't listening to me sleep-talk.'

'I was just doing my job, Shepard.'

The commander narrowed her eyes, 'I wouldn't be stupid enough to screw over Cerberus in their own spacecraft.'

Silence. Long and uncomfortable. Miranda shifted her weight from one heel to the other.

'I'd forgotten how big this room was,' she chimed, willing the conversation to change direction.

She lifted her eyes to the roof, anticipating that superb skylight window that the ship's designer had featured above the bed. To her surprise, the window was closed. Obscured completely.

Shepard followed her line of sight and offered an explanation, 'I can't sleep with it open, especially when we're flying. I woke up a few times and thought I was falling again.'

She trailed off, wincing at some painful memory. Miranda could guess which one.

There were, however, reports waiting to be written.

'You said you needed my help?'

The towel-bound commander traced her chin and sighed, 'Yeah. Yes. I need a favour. It's a stupid favour, and I didn't know who else to ask.'

Miranda glanced around the room again, 'Is something missing from your inventory? I can order replacements-'

'No, no, everything is here. It's fine.'

More silence.

She rested her palms upon a pair of pressed trousers and continued, 'I wondered if you might be able to help me figure out...all this.'

'You mean...clothes?'

Shepard exhaled sharply through her teeth and nodded once, 'Yeah. I do.'

'Are we picking out an outfit, here? Is that what this is?'

Seeing Shepard this vulnerable was both surreal and strangely satisfying. In that moment, Miranda decided it would be morally cruel to continue recording their conversation, so she flicked on her omni-tool and ended her recording.

Illusive man be damned.

She might not have had the luxury of enjoying girl talk with Oriana, but she'd certainly give it her best go with Shepard.

She cast her datapad on the sofa and surveyed the sea of garments.

'Right. What's the occasion?'

It took two hours and a few generous glasses of wine to get Shepard talking.

Really talking.

Miranda was at the semi-drunk stage where she had started rubbing her eyes and could feel clumps of mascara spreading across her cheeks.

'Girl talk' had kicked off with a frustrated Shepard ranting as she paced around the perfectly-placed clothes, all of which had since ended up piled on the floor. The commander's complaints were surprisingly plentiful, centred mostly around the fact that she was sick of wearing uniforms. Miranda wondered what other unspoken complaints lurked behind that freckled frown; would a few more glasses of wine have her spilling secrets as freely as she shed the blood of her enemies?

Shepard wrapped up a point about outfits with logos. Miranda realised she hadn't quite been listening.

So she improvised.

'But I thought you liked your N7 logo?' she whined, her accent strengthening as she dove deeper into her wine bottle. 'I got 'N7' printed on bloody everything for you! It's your thing, isn't it?'

'Oh, sure,' Shepard said, casting a pair of socks across the room into a growing pile of garments. 'N7 means a lot to me. But it's still a job, and I'm sick and tired of wearing my jobs. I want to chat to crew members and walk around in public without looking like I'm constantly on duty. I want to dress like me. Is that too much to ask?'

And so it went on.

Miranda would inspect the stem of her wine glass and offer the occasional comment. Shepard continued to vent her frustrations.

After a while, she started noticing patterns in the commander's complaints. Thane was consistently mentioned as an example of someone who dressed well; who dressed to 'say something about his personality'. Shepard caught herself doing this a few too many times and started using other crew members to emphasise her point thereafter.

'So what kind of outfits do you need?' Miranda asked. 'Give me examples to work with?'

Shepard rubbed her forehead and hummed.

'Alright,' she began. 'Say, for example, that club on Omega we went to yesterday-'

'Pisshole!' Miranda declared, lifting her wine glass for emphasis.

'No, I think it was Afterlife.'

'I know. I meant Omega.'

Shepard made a messy noise; a mixture of laughter and snorting, 'Alright, shut up. What was I saying? Oh yeah. I go to this club for...Samara. I'm dancing and punching people and seducing the mythical asari sex demon,' she paused to catch her breath '-dressed in yellow and black activewear like I'm sponsored by a Cerberus soccer team!'

'Well, you kind of are our-'

'Don't even think about it, Lawson.'

She'd anticipated the comment.

'You could have borrowed something from me?' Miranda offered, as though it were obvious.

'My ass I could! I can't fit your clothes! They look as though they've been painted on you!'

'Rack off, Shepard.'

Eventually, the commander progressed from sassy drunk to emotional drunk.

She started to prattle on about the party that she'd crashed with Kasumi. Borrowing a dress, shoes and jewellery in order to meet the minimum dress code requirements had been especially shameful, apparently.

'I remember the dress,' Miranda interjected. 'It gave you legs for days, and your boobs looked great.'

'That means a lot, coming from a woman with a genetically-perfect rack.'

They clinked wine glasses. Then Miranda started connecting dots.

'That party was weeks ago. Why are you suddenly all worried about what to wear? I thought you didn't like to wear anything that rendered you incapable of running and roundhouse kicking?'

Again, there was silence. Shepard squirmed with discomfort.

'It's Thane, isn't it.'

Shepard avoided her eyes and concentrated on steadying her hand as she refilled her glass.

Miranda clumsily swilled the dregs of her own and revelled in her victory.

'Of course it's Thane,' she drawled. 'You've been stopping by his room for chats every night this week. I should have known.'

Shepard huddled over her glass as though it were a small campfire feeding her life-giving warmth. Her air-dried locks, now released from the post-shower bun, had formed frizzy curtains around her face.

'I mean, he's not my cup of tea. But, I get it. He's a spunky bloke, that Thane,' Miranda admitted, and she meant it.

She leaned back on Shepard's sofa and sighed, 'I remember writing his dossier. It felt like writing a profile for one of those extranet dating sites. "Tall, dark and handsome. Broody. Widower. Assassin. Thighs to die for." I'd have attached more pictures if I'd known you'd be keen.'

Shepard broke her silence, 'It's just...who bows anymore, Miranda? Who bows when they leave a room?'

'Ha! I knew it.'

'He called me siha.'

Shepard sighed the word as if it were a lover's promise.

Miranda set down her glass. A terrible smile spread across her mascara-smeared face.

'EDI,' she drunkenly called to the roof. 'Start an email to Thane from Shepard. Title it "Just got out of the shower" and add a wink-'

Shepard launched at Miranda and screamed at EDI to belay that.

'Shepard, Miranda,' EDI greeted them. 'Thane is currently online. Would you like me to place a call?'

EDI's voice was laced with faux naivety. Miranda cackled with triumph; she was in on this, too.

'DO IT! PLACE THE CALL!' Miranda cried.

'I'LL UNPLUG THE HELL OUT OF YOU!' Shepard bellowed.

Their squabble was silenced as a ringing tone echoed through the suite like a death null.

Miranda stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the commander.

'Shepard?' purred Thane's voice across the intercom.

Shepard's stomach dropped. Miranda could almost see it happening.

'Thane!' she blurted out, her body frozen as though caught in the middle of a crime.

'Is there anything I can do for you?' he asked, somewhat composed despite the lateness of the call.

Miranda watched 'bloody icon' commander Shepard squirm for words.

Not good enough.

She reached out and gave Shepard a whack on the leg, mouthing 'say something'.

'H-how's it gone? Ugh. Going?' Shepard puttered out, running fingers down her face in shame.

Thane laughed softly, 'Very well, actually.'

He went painfully quiet for a while, then added 'And, yourself?'

'Good. Just, you know-' she stopped, distracted by Miranda's flailing limbs.

'Tell him you just got out of the shower,' she whispered. 'Tell him.'

Shepard gave her a solid jab in the arm.

'I was just remembering our talk today,' Thane said at last, mercifully bidding the conversation forward.

'Oh yeah?' Shepard replied, grateful for his manners.

Thane's voice quickened in short, sharp bursts as he let himself escape into the memory, 'She blinks twice. Three times. She pauses, her lips parting ever so slightly. I stare at them: I can't stop myself. She tucks crimson hair behind her ear and tells me her translator didn't catch it. time we talk...I'll tell her what it means.'

Miranda's eyebrows were set sky-high, and she gave Shepard a pout of approval. Shepard wore a wide smile, her cheeks puffed with pride.

'When might that "next time" be?' Shepard asked.

'We're on course for Illium, aren't we? Shall we stretch our legs and head out for a drink? There's a rooftop bar in Nos Astra with a truly outstanding view of the city. Meet me there, at sunset. Illium's sunsets are famously beautiful.'

'So I've heard.'

Shepard bit her lip as the image of Thane silhouetted against the setting sun played across her mind; an image from the day that they'd met.

'Sounds perfect,' she added.

Miranda lifted her glass and silently toasted to the arrangement. Thane bid the commander goodnight, and EDI ended the call with a smug beep.

Both women sighed and let the moment linger a few seconds more.

Shepard shook her head at the pile of tipsy Miranda strewn across her couch.

'I hope you're proud of yourself, Lawson.'

'Go get some beauty sleep,' she laughed, hauling herself up with a groan. 'We've got T-17 and something hours until date night, and we have shopping to do.'

She drained her glass and gave a dismissive nod to the pile of uniforms on Shepard's floor, 'Lots of shopping to do.'

Shepard nodded in agreement and set an ungodly alarm on her omni-tool. Miranda made her way clumsily to the door, heels and datapad in tow.

Before making her exit, she turned and shot Shepard a dirty smirk.

'Remind me to send you the recordings of Thane's physical exam. It was...thorough.'

Shepard clapped a hand to her mouth, 'How thorough are we talking?'

Miranda hummed, 'He's a spunky bloke, that Thane.'

'Dismissed, Lawson.'