It was by some unspoken agreement that Miranda stayed behind after everyone else had filtered out of Shepard's apartment. Kaidan had volunteered to stick around and help clean up, which prompted a few more hasty offers from the rest of the group, but Shepard had turned them all down.

"Go home and get some rest," she'd told them. "The galaxy needs you at one hundred percent."

But Miranda knew she was just being selfless, as per damn usual. She was glad Shepard didn't try to make her leave, too. She would have had to physically carry her to the elevator. Miranda was not about to waste what might be the last chance to spend time with the woman she loved before shit hit the fan (again).

She leaned against the kitchen counter and watched as Shepard finally shut the door behind the last straggler with a sigh. When the redhead turned, she was smiling, albeit tiredly. "What a crowd," she said, rolling her shoulders like they hurt. "I'm glad we got to see everybody again, but damn. They really know how to tear a place up."

Leisurely, Miranda crossed the distance to her and reached up to lay her hands on said shoulders. She began to massage the sore muscles beneath her fingers, and Shepard leaned into the touch with a groan. The sound reminded Miranda of last night—their after-party, if you will—and she smiled. "You could have let them help clean up," she pointed out as the commander melted beneath her hands.

Shepard shook her head. "It's no trouble."

Miranda looked pointedly around the apartment at the discarded glasses, crumpled napkins, food debris, and water rings on every surface. It was a mess, and that wasn't even taking into account the bathrooms and guest rooms.

Shepard followed her gaze and sighed. "Okay," she admitted, "maybe I could use some help."

"Good thing you have me," Miranda said.

And that's how they'd ended up here: Shepard camped out at the kitchen sink, up to her elbows in soap suds, while Miranda buzzed around the apartment to provide her a seemingly endless stream of dishes, glasses, and silverware to wash. The 'clean' pile was growing steadily, but the 'dirty' pile was still a veritable mountain in comparison.

Miranda was running out of steam. As she set down the fourth load of used shot glasses from the bar with no end in sight, she finally felt the need to speak up. "Don't you have people for this?" she wondered, exasperated.

Shepard looked up from scrubbing a plate covered in something suspiciously green. Had they even served anything green? "People for what?"

"Cleaning up after you." Miranda came up beside her and annexed the water stream for a moment to wash her hands. "Goodness knows you need it often enough."

"I can do it myself."

"Yes, but you're Commander Shepard. You have more important things to do."

"This is important," Shepard argued. At Miranda's disbelieving scoff, she added, "to me."

Miranda sighed and looped her arms around the redhead's waist from behind. She was tall enough to rest her cheek comfortably on Shepard's shoulder, and she took full advantage of that fact. "The most powerful woman in the galaxy, washing dishes," she lamented. "What has this world come to?"

Shepard hummed and leaned her head against Miranda's. "I don't know about that. We've met some pretty powerful women in our time."

"More powerful than you? Who?" There were some possibilities, but Miranda was curious what Shepard thought. And, maybe, she privately hoped that she was on that list.

"Jack," Shepard pointed out.

"Oh, please," Miranda dismissed. Jack had power, sure, but no control over it. That compromised her effectiveness.

"Aria T'Loak."

Miranda shook her head. Again, the power was there, but undercut by a terrible attitude.

"Samara."

Miranda pursed her lips, considering. When no immediate argument stuck out to her, she conceded, "All right, I'll give you that one."

Shepard made a satisfied sound. Then, abruptly, she turned in Miranda's arms to face her, and the two were brought nose-to-nose. Miranda didn't pull back the way she once would have, instead meeting the commander's eyes to find them soft and full of intention. "You," Shepard said in low, husky tones.

The flattery was obvious, but Miranda didn't mind. She let the commander pull her in with still-wet hands and begin to nose at her neck. Shepard liked to start there, she'd noticed. She reached up to run her fingers encouragingly through the other woman's hair and replied, "Shepard, I wasn't even strong enough to resist you."

Shepard smiled against her skin. "You're right. And now you're stuck washing dishes."

"Oh, the misery." Miranda rolled her eyes. Then she yelped and jumped back as the commander nipped her on the neck. "Shepard!"

"You've still got work to do," the redhead said, grinning. She motioned to the pile of dirty plates yet to pass through the sink. "Chop, chop."

Miranda let out an indignant noise, but took up a position at the sink anyway. It was no skin off her back to lend Shepard a hand, really, even if the task was as mundane as this. And the commander's fingers were looking awfully wrinkled from her stint on dish duty. She was in need of a break.

Miranda couldn't resist flicking a little water in her direction before she got to work, though, just on principle.

"Hey, watch it!" Shepard cried out, flinching under the spray. When Miranda giggled rather than repenting, the redhead rounded on her, reaching for the nearby dish towel. "Oh, you're really asking for it now," she warned, beginning to twist the rag between her hands.

Miranda figured out what was coming a moment too late. "No!" she yelped, dancing to the side, but Shepard was quicker. Her hand shot out, and the towel with it.

Snap!

"Ow!" Pain arced through Miranda's ass. She retreated behind the corner of the kitchen counter, nursing her afflicted cheek and laughing despite herself. Shepard followed, that damned dishrag still in her grasp, and Miranda threw out her hands to stop her. "Shepard, you menace! Don't you dare do that again!"

"Or what?" The redhead gave her an innocent grin and wound up for another snap.

Miranda did not let her get that far. She lunged, catching the stupid towel in her own grip, and before Shepard could react, she yanked.

The motion didn't wrench the weapon out of Shepard's hands like she'd wanted; only sent the commander stumbling into her, but there were worse things, Miranda figured as their bodies collided. Shepard, laughing lightly, relinquished her hold on the towel in favor of gripping Miranda's waist. Miranda let herself be pulled in, her chest pressing to Shepard's in what was now a familiar way, and suddenly they were kissing in the middle of the kitchen, warm and breathless and right.

Miranda let out a contented noise and slid her arms around the commander's shoulders. "Good thing you sent everyone else home," she murmured against Shepard's lips between kisses that quickly grew harder, deeper.

Shepard acknowledged her words with only a groan, occupied with pressing Miranda's hips into the counter so forcefully she had to catch herself. Once there, the commander's hands began to wander, leaving trails of electricity in their wake, and suddenly last night seemed far too long ago.

Miranda broke their contact just long enough to boost herself onto the counter. Then she wound her legs and arms around Shepard again, pulling her in until there was hardly space enough between them to breathe. Shepard, unsurprisingly, turned her attention to Miranda's neck, and the ex-officer stretched to give her access. The commander's lips burned a trail up to her pulse point and sucked, eliciting a gasp.

"Don't ever stop," Miranda breathed, only half-thinking as heat began to flood her deepest parts.

But something about those words had the opposite of their intended effect. Shepard's hands stilled suddenly, coming to rest on Miranda's hips, and she pulled back. Jade green eyes flickered between her own two, the haze of lust in them already fading. Shepard bit her swollen lower lip, looking…nervous? "Miranda," she ventured, and she certainly sounded nervous, "I wanted to talk to you."

Miranda let her own hands slide down to Shepard's and squeezed, a gesture meant to steady them both. "About what?" she wondered, dread replacing the heat that had stirred briefly in her gut.

"This. Us."

"What about us?" Miranda prompted a little tentatively, wondering if somehow she'd done something wrong. If for some reason Shepard was about to tell her this is it. We're over. They'd been doing well, hadn't they? She'd certainly thought so.

Shepard faced her soberly, and the look in her eyes did nothing to dispel Miranda's fears. "I—look," she began with effort. Commander Shepard, hesitating? Not a good sign. "Since we met—since we started this, we've lived every day knowing that it might be our last. We've always known the risks, and we've always accepted them. But…"

Miranda could barely breathe. "But?"

"This war. The Reapers. We've never faced a threat this massive before." Shepard spoke with something very close to resignation in her voice. "And something about this next mission feels…final."

Miranda shook her head, anxiety mounting as she guessed the direction this conversation was going. "Don't tell me you're giving up already. You've faced impossible odds and come out on top before," she reminded. Frequently. It was basically Shepard's specialty.

"Of course I'm not giving up," Shepard assured in a less-than-reassuring tone. "I just think it would be a good idea to prepare."

"What do you mean?" It came out a fearful whisper.

"If I die, I want you to have this. This place."

Miranda's heart dropped into her toes. "Shepard—"

"I would have left you everything, but I'm pretty sure Garrus would have given you a run for my guns. And Sam might commandeer my cabin on the Normandy—"

"Shepard, slow down." Miranda caught the commander's face in her hands, silencing her. They stared at each other across what could only be inches, but felt like miles. "I can't accept this. What about…" She racked her brain to recall Shepard's connections. Surely someone else would be first in line to receive what was basically the commander's entire inheritance.

"There's no one, Miranda," Shepard said softly like she'd read her mind. "Only you."

"No." This wasn't acceptable. Logical, yes, but all logic flew from Miranda's mind at the thought of losing Shepard. She tightened her grip as if she could physically prevent the possibility. "You're not going to die. I'm not—"

"Whatever happens with Cerberus, or the Alliance, you'll need a safe place to stay. A base of operations," Shepard interrupted calmly, the antithesis to Miranda's growing agitation. "Why let a perfectly good hideout go to waste?"

All words died on Miranda's lips. There were so many things she wanted to say. So many points she wanted to argue. So many reasons Shepard shouldn't start dictating her living will right here in the middle of her wrecked post-party kitchen. But at the same time, the Reaper threat was real and looming, and Shepard was not known for backing down.

So instead of arguing, Miranda just swallowed hard and said, voice ragged, "I suppose you've already made up your mind."

"Yeah," Shepard whispered, reaching up to run her thumb over Miranda's knuckles; a futile comfort. It was clear from her expression that she knew this was a miserable thing to talk about—to have to talk about—but a necessary one, too.

Miranda forced a mirthless little laugh. "Then who am I to argue?"

Shepard didn't have anything to say to that. She sighed deeply, hollowly, like in that moment she was nothing but a vessel for helpless regret. And who could blame her?

Then she tipped her head up and kissed Miranda tenderly on the lips.

The contact was like a punch to the chest, and Miranda felt something jar loose inside of her. Another moment and a sudden wetness on her cheeks later, she realized it was tears. She broke the kiss to swipe them away viciously. Strong. She was strong. She would be strong, no matter what.

No matter what happened to Shepard.

"Miranda," the woman in question said softly, drawing her attention again.

"Mm?"

"There's one more thing. If I die—" Miranda started to look away, but Shepard slid a hand to her jaw to hold her steady, and she was rendered helpless to do anything except meet that all-consuming green gaze. "If I die, I want you to move on. No resurrecting me again. No going on a quest for vengeance. No staying celibate forever in honor of my memory." The faint twist of her lips said that the last one was a joke, but there was nothing funny about the look in Shepard's eyes.

Miranda clenched her jaw to hold back the urge to cry, or maybe scream at the unfairness of it all. Why did it always have to be her? Why did it always have to be Shepard who gave up everything for the good of the galaxy?

Why did Miranda have to fall in love with her, of all people?

There was so much she wanted to say, but in this moment, a trembling, "Okay," was all she could manage in response.

Even as the word passed her lips, she knew it was a lie.