#fulmentus

This is uncomfortable territory. Maze has gotten so much better at being open with her feelings, but, she still- just- sometimes she’s not prepared for the conversations they should have. Linda is still patient almost to a fault but it’s infuriating. She’s a demon. Emotions shouldn’t be nearly as scary as they are.

Yet here they are.

She hates it too, she hates it because she already knows she’s going to change the subject. She, herself, cannot stand it enough yet to be open like that. Like Linda might deserve. So instead she sits up, turns on her stool, and picks up her nearly forgotten glass of alcohol.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” She says mostly to herself.

Linda slips a hand to touch the closest forearm, head turning to smile at her. She pauses, liquid in her mouth and stares. It’s stunning Linda still smiles so thankfully at her. Like nothing has changed. Like she doesn’t know how Maze feels, maybe she doesn’t.

“I’m glad you came,” Linda chuckles, reaching forward to rub away liquid that leaked from the corner of Maze’s mouth, “I would probably want to die, especially if I have to talk to another man and hear him talk down to me. Like I don’t know anything.”

Maze turns in a flash, swallowing her drink, and giving Linda the most serious looks she possibly can.

“I’ll cut their throats where they sleep.” She means it.

It should be so amusing or as endearing as it is, really, but Linda can’t help it. She chuckles, leaning forward to hide her face in the demon’s shoulder like no one else is around and just laughs. Maze doesn’t understand why she’s laughing but wraps an arm around her all the same. Frowns confusedly.

“I don’t understand why are you-”

“It’s just,” Linda starts, sitting up again and wiping tears from her eyes, “you’re still the first person who means that when they say it. Aside from Lucifer, but I feel like you’d beat him to the punch. Just because they slightly offended me.”

Maze’s frown deepens, “Why wouldn’t I? They don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.”

Linda shakes her head, patting one of Maze’s cheeks and smiles. Her hand lingers for a moment.

“Thank you.”

Walking faster, they both reach the chair at the same time, Shaw scowls at the stranger, the really attractive stranger who smiles at her and flops into Shaw’s chair like she owns it.

“Well sweetie,” the brunette drawls, an accent Shaw identifies as Texan, “looks like we have a predicament, one that can be solved easily.” Her eyes drift down and it’s no secret what she wants.

“Name’s Shaw, not sweetie, and I’m not sitting on your lap.” The girl isn’t unattractive, with a sharp nose, long hair, and a smile that promises endless possibilities if Shaw just sits on her lap. She’s pretty, but it’s the principle of the matter.

“My name’s Root and that’s not the only place you can sit on.”

And wow, Shaw has to force herself not to take a step back because no one has ever been that brazen. Instead, she settles for saying nothing, hoping to unnerve Root out of her seat and far away from the corner that’s been hers for the past four semesters.

“That’s not going to work on me.” Root stretches out further, her shirt riding up underneath her leather jacket to reveal creamy white skin that almost works to distract Shaw except its almost ninety degrees outside. How the hell is this girl wearing a leather jacket? “It seems like we’re at an impasse.”

Like hell they are.

Shaw steps forward and the girl looks uneasy for a second before her face smoothes back into the self-assured smirk and raised eyebrows. With minimal effort, Shaw lifts the chair, deposits the lanky brunette onto the library carpet and falls into the newly unoccupied chair, feeling extremely satisfied with herself.

“Wow,” Root breathes below her, “you’re really strong.”

Anyone else would be annoyed about being dumped onto the floor, but not this girl, no she’s content to sit on the floor and focus on Shaw’s arms, arms that are most definitely not flexed as she takes all the stuff she needs out of her bag.

“What do I have to do to make you go away?” Shaw finally asks because Root has yet to take the hint and she really needs to finish this assignment today.

“Go out on a date with me.”

“I don’t date.” Dating leads to relationships and Shaw doesn’t do relationships.

“Fine, get coffee with me.”

“That still sounds like a date.”

“It’s not,” Root argues, “it’s just two attractive people getting caffeine together. Besides, it’s not a date if there’s daylight.”

“Fine, coffee, and a sandwich.” A free meal never hurt anyone.

Root grabs her fallen bag, pulling out her phone she hands it to Shaw who quickly types in her phone number wondering if she’s going to regret this.

“I’ll see you soon Shaw.”

“Whatever.”

Root pockets her phone with a smile, grabbing the hand Shaw offers to help her up, the moment their hands meet, Root is pulling at her, somehow managing to pull Shaw out of her seat, the stuff she printed scattered at her feet.  

“So you thought the best way to ask was to stand on my fire escape at,” Shaw pulls her phone from her back pocket, checks the time, “two in the morning?”

Shaw should sleeping, honestly, warm underneath her blankets while plotting the best way to steal Bear (and hoping that the Machine doesn’t send her out on another early morning number), and not doing whatever this is. Standing here, letting the cold draft in while Root stands on her fire escape, expecting entry.

She mulls over sending Root on her way, but thinks better of it. Shaw sighs, shakes her head, and steps away from the window.

“Fine. Get in.”

And she doesn’t need to see Root to know that she’s smirking in that infuriating way of hers. Shaw moves to the bathroom where she keeps her supplies, calculates the fastest way to deal with Root’s injuries so she can get to sleep.

She listens to the sounds of Root scrambling off the metal escape and fumbling her way through the window. It’s a miracle she doesn’t trip over herself with all of those gangly limbs.

When she returns, Root hasn’t moved far from the window sill, her eyes catching on the relatively empty place Shaw calls her living space (not a home, not a home at all). Shaw takes a moment to look her over, bundled in a coat, her face flushed from the cold.

“You gonna show me or not?”

And Shaw regrets the way she phrased it the second Root’s eyes train on her, a more pronounced smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

She shrugs off her coat. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Shaw rolls her eyes and opens her hefty first aid kit. She removes the supplies she needs and settles into the familiar role of patching someone up.

(The last time she did this, there’d been a hole in Root’s shoulder and a glazed expression on her face after she saved Cyrus Wells.)

Root, oddly, says nothing when Shaw begins cleaning the blood around the gash on her arm, stays quiet and still and lets Shaw work in peace. Only supplies knife when Shaw asks what did it.

“What did the Machine have you doing?” Shaw asks after a moment, unnerved by Root’s silence and not knowing why she’s encouraging this. But the ire from having been disturbed so late has faded, and maybe she’s a little bit curious.

Root tilts her head to the side, Shaw catches a brief glance of the pink scar behind her ear before it disappears behind a curtain of hair, and makes a face, clearly listening to the Machine.

“Preparing.” Shaw arches a brow. “There’s a war coming, Shaw. We need to be ready.”

Shaw knows that. Has heard it countless times since their encounter with Control, but no one has told her anything about it. Just another AI looming in the near future. But Shaw and Reese aren’t doing much about it.

Just Root.

“You ever gonna let us in on whatever plans you have?” Shaw asks as she finishes the neat row of stitches, pulling the thread taut.

“When She tells me it’s time,” Root replies, pulling that whole mysterious bullshit.

“Whatever.” She places a bandage over the stitches, folding the edges across Root’s skin, and Shaw can feel Root’s attention on her then, eyes burning into the the top of her head. She pulls back. “All set.”

Root grins, rises to her feet. “Thanks, Doc.” She slides her arms through her coat.

“You heading out?”

Shaw wonders where she sleeps — or if she ever sleeps. Root always flits in and out of the library, providing cryptic clues and answers whenever she sweeps by. Bizarre how the Machine makes her the interface and doesn’t give her a place to stay.

“Are you inviting me to stay?” Root steps into Shaw’s space, and Shaw tilts her chin up to meet her gaze, blinks slowly.

“No.”

To her credit, Root doesn’t appear put out.

“But try the door next time.”

“Next time?”

Shaw regrets letting Root through her window.

—

Except she lets Root through the door the next time, and the next time.

Casual encounters that start with an ill-timed come-on and end with Shaw scowling at Root’s lack of self-care. Not only that, but Root has a habit of appearing at her doorstep in the late hours of the night, looking like she was swept in a whirlwind.

And there’s a sort of disconnect there, Shaw notices after she patches up Root for the third time in a month. A disconnect from her body.

It’s different, noting that about her. Because Shaw has always been firmly planted within herself, aware of how her body moves, where it’s positioned in relation to her adversaries. A connection she’s honed since her residency and carried with her through the Marines and the ISA.

But Root doesn’t share that, doesn’t seem to want to spend time on such trivial things like making sure she doesn’t bleed to death.

(Weird how the Machine chose someone with such a blatant disregard for her health to be its eyes and ears.)

Shaw doesn’t comment, just stitches up Root’s newest injury, and watches her disappear out the door and into the night.

—

Once Samaritan comes online, letting Root through her door happens fairly less often.

With all of them in hiding, keeping their heads down, it’s too risky for any of them to be seen together. Being in hiding also comes with the worst job ever, and Shaw has to resist stabbing someone with a stiletto at every turn.

(Working in environment filled with entitled people and others who think she cares about which color lipstick matches them best leaves much to be desired.)

(Shaw is going to take a hammer to the Machine for putting her here.)

But the numbers eventually return, and Shaw no longer has to sit idle behind her make-up counter and pretend to be a normal aspect of society. She gets to out there, shooting people, and fucking with Reese.

And with the numbers, Root follows. Flitting in and out of their new subway base like a coming breeze. They barely have time to say more than a few sentences to each other before Root leaves on another mission. Not that Shaw is particularly bothered.

But there’s this persistent nagging in the back of her mind whenever Root leaves on a mission for the Machine. This urge to know if Root’s taking care of herself properly — she never did even when Samaritan wasn’t a threat.

Shaw keeps that strange feeling tucked in the back of her mind and focuses on the numbers that come her way. Works alongside Reese to ensure the safety of the civilians, and makes sure to keep Bear company.

Because that’s the mission. And Shaw knows how to handle the mission better than anything else.

—

“We really have to stop meeting like this.”

That’s what Root goes with after she’s been shot twice, combatted that blonde bitch without backup, and disappeared for a day without a word. That’s what Root goes with as she leans heavily against Shaw’s doorframe at half-past midnight, clutching her arm, and smiling dazedly.

Shaw would never admit the tinge of relief she felt when she saw Root in once piece, but she buries that beneath the familiar sting of annoyance.

She tugs Root inside and into the bathroom, flicking on the light as she steps through the door.

“Moving fast, are we?” Root murmurs, teetering in place, unbalanced, when Shaw releases her to rummage through the cabinets.

She shakes her head, placing the kit of her supplies on the sink with a clatter. “You’re an idiot,” she remarks when she looks at Root again, noting the shadows under her eyes and the stark white bandage peeking from underneath her shirt.

“I’ve actually been known to be a genius.” Root grins, but it fades when she winces, having jostled her arm as she settles on top of the sink.

Shaw tugs at the hem of Root’s shirt. “Off.”

Root tries to put on a show, but the effect is lost when she attempts to get her injured arm out of the sleeve, only to grimace in pain at every try.

After several moments of struggle, Shaw stepping in to assist her, the shirt is finally off and Shaw can examine the poor stitching job of whichever intern patched Root up after the shootout in the hotel.

“You should’ve had backup,” Shaw mutters, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.

Root sighs. “We’ve been over this, Shaw.” She shakes her head, messy waves of brown hair cascading over her uninjured shoulder. “It would have blown your cover.”

(Covers. That’s all Root’s been focused on since Samaritan came online. Their covers and running around for the Machine.

Covers, covers, covers. Damn them if the Machine is going to be sending out her assets alone.)

“Bitch could’ve killed you,” Shaw says instead, swallowing down the flood of angry words. “What then?”

“She didn’t,” Root reminds her, like that means anything. Like she isn’t sitting in Shaw’s apartment bleeding from yet another bullet wound.

“You’re not bulletproof.”

“Clearly.”

“Next time, you’re getting back up.” Shaw neatly ties off the end of the stitches. “Don’t care what the Machine thinks.”

Root peers through her lashes, lips quirking into a tiny smile. “Is that concern I hear, Sameen?”

Shaw purposefully focuses on returning all of her supplies to their proper places, slamming the cabinet doors shut a little too loudly.

When she turns back around, Root is still staring at her, eyes sharp and intense, but there’s something about it that’s different than the flirtation Shaw is accustomed to. And it’s not the first time she’s noticed.

Lately, the way Root looks at her has changed. Less of the intention to unnerve and more… more of something much heavier. Something Shaw is certain she knows the name of but adamantly refuses to label.

(She doesn’t do feelings. Not at the intensity of everyone else.

They are shallow echoes in her chest — like when her father died, when Cole died — quiet murmurs in the back of her mind. Ones that have compelled her to become a doctor, become a Marine, accept the ISA’s request.

The feeling of doing the right thing because she has the choice to.)

She doesn’t do what Root is doing. Doesn’t look at her with potent emotion searing through every tick of her expression. She knows Root regards her in some special light (not unlike how she views the Machine).

Knows that this is different.

(For both of them.)

“You can take the couch.”

Root’s brows rise, and she cants her head to the side. “Are you asking me to stay?” It’s less flirtation and more confusion, and yeah, Shaw is asking her to stay.

And maybe because it has to do with the way Root seemed so drained of life the previous day, so tired and weary. Maybe it’s the way that Root seems generally unmoored, lost.

“I’m saying the couch is open.” Shaw points to the wound she just patched up. “Shouldn’t be doing anything extensive with that.”

Root blinks, opens her mouth to say something, but the Machine must pitch in because she shuts her mouth with an audible click and nods. Shaw helps her into a more comfortable shirt, presses a pillow and blanket into her grasp. Ushers her to the couch.

As Shaw turns away, ready to catch some sleep of her own, Root calls her name.

Shaw pivots on her heel, hitches a brow.

“Thank you.”

It’s said so genuinely, so unlike how Root typically is, and Shaw does nothing but nod and flick off the lamp, retreating to her bedroom to sleep off the energy that’s been buzzing through her since she knew Root was still relatively intact.

—

“The Machine, she isn’t talking to you, is she?”

It’s after another long number, another number that required Shaw saving Reese’s ass, again, and Shaw is decompressing in her living room with the lights off, only the faint illumination of the streetlights outside allowing her to see Root, who sits across from her on the couch, cheek pressed into her palm.

(She forgets to be annoyed at the fact that Root stole her extra key and let herself in.)

Shaw takes a drink from her beer, sets it down on the table. The glass briefly reflects the dull orange light spilling across the apartment floor, and Shaw turns her attention back to Root, who hasn’t said a word.

“That’s why you’ve been all Eeyore lately?”

And with Root half-shrouded in shadow, it’s hard to read her face, but Shaw likes to think she knows her well enough to recognize when Root is hiding something.

“I get murmurs,” Root finally answers, voice barely above a whisper. “She can’t talk with Samaritan online.”

Shaw can hear the sadness bleeding through her tone, doesn’t know what to say to that. How do you comfort someone who’s lost their connection to an artificial super intelligence they view as a god?

(Not that Shaw has ever been one to comfort someone.)

“Root,” she starts, weirdly uncertain of why she’s even bothering to speak, “sorry she can’t talk to you right now.”

Shaw resists the urge to roll her eyes at herself, takes up her beer again to avoid having to say anything else. But she must have said something right because the space beside her dips with additional weight, and Root’s warmth is mixing with her own.

Shaw stiffens when Root rests her head on her shoulder, but she doesn’t shove her off. Kind of enjoys the way Root’s hair is soft against her neck.

They don’t speak after that, and Shaw doesn’t remove Root from her shoulder until she starts to feel it go numb.

(She does offer the couch to her again, so at least there’s that.)

—

Afterwards, Root crashing into her apartment becomes a near regular thing whenever she’s in town, which isn’t very often since she’s constantly being shipped off all over the world.

But she always appears at Shaw’s doorstep when she returns, a smirk on her lips and a glint in her eyes.

They fuck in the comfort of the darkness, carve out a space in each other as the night paints them in greys and silvers. Burn impressions of of themselves into skin and bone, brand each other with fire on their lips.

And Shaw’s never had someone match her heat with equal fervor.

(Maybe it’s the desperation of the war, or maybe it’s because Root knows how to read into everything Shaw wants in a sexual partner.

But it’s better than any sex Shaw has experienced.)

She lets Root stay.

—

It’s almost a year later when Shaw is able to open the door to Root again.

Open the door in reality, and not welcome Root into the vulnerable crevices of herself in some fucked up simulation that blurs her reality and leaves her head spinning for hours until she can catch her breath, remember how to think clearly.

(Thinking clearly, now that’s a thought.

Everything around her is tainted, and Shaw finds herself trying to remember what was real and what wasn’t more than she does anything else.)

But Root helps.

When the sun dips and the sky darkens and every nerve ending in Shaw’s body is on fire — it’s not real, that didn’t happen — Root is there. Gentle fingers wrapped around Shaw’s wrist, tugging her hand away from the side of her neck.

Away from the skin Shaw’s rubbed raw ever since she’s returned from Samaritan hell.

Contrasted against the shadows and the pale moonlight, Root tries to pull Shaw away from the lingering imprint the simulations left in Shaw’s mind. Tells Shaw about the numbers she and Reese worked when Shaw was gone.

Tells her of the wedding they crashed — well, I crashed, Root amends with a crooked smile, fingers running through the strands of hair at Shaw’s temple, I wasn’t technically invited. Tells her about Bear.

Bear, who sits at the end of the bed, watching them with pricked ears and a wagging tail.

And Shaw is able to resettle herself for the time being, with Root’s voice in her ear, and Bear’s presence anchoring her to the present.

—

It takes time. Takes an annoyingly long amount of time for Shaw to stop questioning every little thing that’s off (it never goes away, that clawing doubt in the back of her mind, that scraping at her throat that this isn’t real), but she gets there.

Gets to a point where she’s more or less like to her old self.

(No one could have survived what you went through, Root assures her, confident in Shaw — always confident in Shaw — vehement in the face of Shaw’s doubt. You are so strong, Sameen.)

She gets back to the numbers, to messing with Reese, to fucking with Fusco. She gets back to her early morning jogs, gets back to walking Bear around the park.

Gets back to disentangling herself from Root to make breakfast.

She still stumbles at times, jerks awake from the phantom burning in the side of her neck. But Root is there every time, helping her fumble through the faint grey light of pre-dawn. There to reassure Shaw that this is reality.

That she escaped Samaritan.

It takes time. But Shaw is nothing if not resilient. Strong, deeply connected to herself. Samaritan may have tried to break that, may have taken parts of Shaw that she won’t get back, but they didn’t succeed.

Shaw didn’t break.