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Shoot Secret Santa Gift by @axl99!Â

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âHuh,â Root mused, furrowing her brow. Shaw looked up from her current task of sharpening her knife. âThe Machine sent us a new number?â she asked, focusing back on the task at hand. âYou could say that - although this one seems a little out of the ordinary.â âYeah? How so?â âWell,â Root stood up from her seat at the computer desk and walked over to where Shaw was seated, âShe didnât give us a name or any of the usual identifying markers - just coordinates and instructions to extract the number.â âIs She glitching up? Sheâs only been back online for a few months; maybe it takes time to configure or something.â Root tilted her head and smiled. âI love it when you try to speak nerd. However, I donât think thatâs the problem. It almost feels like sheâs purposely withholding this information from us.â
âSo the Machine wants us to go into our next mission flying blind?â Shaw shook her head. âUsually Iâd be up for this sort of thing, but you barely just recovered from that GSW. Now is not the time to play hide and seek with the details.â âThere has to be a good reason for her to keep this information from us,â Root said. âBesides, Iâm fully healed now.â She lifted up the hem of her shirt to reveal a shiny pink scar just under her right ribs. âSee? Good as new.â Shaw shook her head. âJust because you look fine on the outside doesnât mean that it doesnât still hurt on the inside, Root.â The words were simple but Root could tell that there was much more meaning behind them than Shaw let on. She raised an eyebrow in question and Shaw responded by rolling her eyes. âIâve been gutshot too, remember? Coming back from the dead ainât as easy as it sounds.â âItâs not too bad if you have your own personal physician to make sure that youâre healing properly,â Root teased. âAnyway,â Shaw said, changing the subject, âwhy should we even go on this mission if the Machine doesnât trust us with the numberâs identity?â âConsider it an adventure, Sameen. Itâs not that she doesnât trust us; the Machine assures me that there is nothing to worry about and that She just didnât want the numberâs identity to cloud our judgment.â âWho could it possibly be that would cloud our judgment?â Shaw asked. Root gave her pleading look and Shaw threw up her hands. âFine. Your baby Machine better know what itâs doing,â she grumbled. âSo whatâs the plan?â Root listened intently to the Machine in her ear and nodded along in understanding. âThereâs a charity event tomorrow night at the Waldorf Manor in the upper east side hosted by Robert Waldorf III himself.â
âHeâs got a number after his name? Ugh, I hate him already.â
âWaldorf has connections to various criminal groups in New York, though it has never been proven. To the average New York citizen heâs just a very, very successful businessman and philanthropist. Our number was abducted on his orders and is being held somewhere inside the mansion. We need to secure invitations to this party, find and free the number, and then escape without getting noticed.â Shaw nodded. âSounds easy enough. I assume the Machine will be supplying us with the invites to this party?â Root smiled. âYou assumed correctly.â She paused and listened again as the Machine provided her with additional information. âHold on, thereâs...a second part to this mission,â Root relayed the Machineâs message to Shaw. âAlso hidden at the mansion is a hard drive containing the identities and objectives of every undercover intelligence agent at the CIA. This information was probably obtained during Samaritanâs time and is likely being sold to the highest bidder.â âIf any of this information gets leaked, who knows what kind of chaos it could cause. Not to mention all the lives that would be put at risk.â
âExactly. Thatâs why weâll need to retrieve the hard drive and destroy it as soon as possible.â
âAlright - what are we waiting for, then? We have a party to crash.â . . . . âCaitlyn Kennedy and Mara Walker,â Root announced their cover names to the doorman as they approached the grand doors to Waldorf Manor where the party was being held. Root wore a navy blue dress while Shaw wore one in her signature black. A security guard standing by searched through their bags as the the doorman took out his tablet and scanned it for the names. He nodded and looked back up. âMs. Kennedy; Ms. Walker - this way, please,â he gestured politely for them to enter. They retrieved their bags from the security guard and proceeded into the grand corridor towards the ballroom. The sound of light chatter and clinking glass reached their ears as they walked through the large corridor and into the grand ballroom. âSo who do you think would be abducted and imprisoned by someone this rich and powerful?â Shaw asked lowly, surveying the room. âI guess weâre about to find out,â Root answered. âIn approximately seven minutes, the security guard at the west doors will leave his post to go for a cigarette break. There will be a 42-second window before his relief comes to take over the post. During this time, we will need to leave through the west doors undetected. The Machine will loop the surveillance footage so that we wonât be detected on the cams, and weâll need to create a small diversion so that we can move.â Shaw nodded imperceptibly while grabbing a handful of canapĂ©s off of a passing tray. âAnd where do we go once we get through the doors?â she asked, stuffing the food into her mouth. âThe number is being held somewhere on the third floor. The Machine will give us directions once we get up there.â Shaw looked around the room looking for a drink, and as if out of nowhere, Root produced a flute of champagne and pressed it into Shawâs hand. âWhere did you- actually yâknow what, never mind. Iâve learned not to question anything when it comes to you and the Machine,â Shaw said as she downed the champagne in one gulp. âThanks, sweetie,â Root beamed, taking the empty glass back from Shaw and tossing it into the corner of the room, causing it to shatter upon impact with the floor. âMove - now!â Root whispered, gesturing to the direction of the west doors while heads turned towards the sound of the shattered glass. They quickly made their way out of the west doors and into the hallway, staying close to the walls to avoid detection. They headed towards the grand staircase and Shaw had started to ascend the stairs when Root grabbed onto her elbow and pulled her back. âWhat the hell, Root?â Shaw whispered, âarenât we supposed to go to the third floor?â Root smiled. âMinor detour, Sam.â Root pulled Shaw into an empty guestroom nearby and shoved her up against the wall, lifting a finger to her lips to signal for Shaw to keep quiet. âWell this is cozy,â Root teased, still holding the shorter woman against the wall with her own body. Shaw was about to shove Root off of her but froze when the sound of footsteps approached from outside in the hallway.Â
The door to the room opened and a man wearing a tuxedo entered, chatting on his phone. He stopped when he saw the two women pressed up against the wall.
âOh, e-excuse me, I didnât think anyone was in here,â he stammered, turning around to leave.Â
âIâm sorry too,â Root said, swiftly pulling out a hot pink taser from out of nowhere and shoving it into the manâs neck.
The man slumped to the ground, unconscious, and Root raised her eyes to meet Shawâs questioning look. Root shrugged. âI borrowed this from Zoe. The ones I have are too bulky to smuggle in the back of my dress.â
âWell thatâs nice that you guys share weapons and all, but Iâm wondering why we had to tase the guy.â Shaw gestured to the unconscious form on the floor. âHe was going to leave.â
âOh, that. The Machine says that we need to tie him up and take his clothes.â
âAnd I suppose this is all part of the mysterious plan?â
Root shrugged. âI only do what Iâm told. Weâll find out eventually what the Machine has in store.â
Shaw rolled her eyes. âRight.â
Root rummaged through a nearby linen closet and pulled out a bathrobe. She removed the belt of the bathrobe and the both of them quickly tied up the man and dumped him onto the bed. Root grabbed a pillowcase and stuffed it into the manâs mouth so that he would not be able to alert anyone when he regains consciousness. They grabbed the clothes and proceeded out of the bathroom and back into the hallway.Â
Shaw followed Root up the staircase and down yet another hallway until they stopped in front of one of the doors.Â
Root put down the clothes and turned to Shaw. âTwo armed men. Both on the left side of the room. We have the element of surprise. The tallest one has a bad right knee, so youâll take him out first while I tase the other.â
Shaw nodded, kicking off her heels.Â
âOn my count,â Root whispered, âOne...two...three!â
Shaw used her shoulder to ram open the door and immediately headed toward the tallest man, kicking in his right knee and relieving him of his sidearm when he doubled over in pain. She knocked him out cold with a blow to the back of the head using the handle of her pistol. Shaw glanced over at Root who had tased the second man and also taken his weapon.
They looked over towards the other side of the room and spotted their number. A man standing with his back towards them and his hands bound and tied with rope to a light fixture above his head. His face was obscured by a black hood, but Shaw knew that this man was no stranger to her or Root.Â
As they approached the figure and Root reached up to remove the hood, realisation dawned on Shaw. That face (and that ass) was unmistakable. Oh, shit. Itâs- âTomas! What a surprise,â Root greeted in her saccharine sweet voice that Shaw knew she only reserved for people she really, really wanted to stab. This would explain why the Machine chose not to reveal the identity of the number ahead of the mission.
âIâm sorry, I donât think weâve met,â Tomas replied, a look of confusion on his face. He look over toward Shaw and the confused look turned into a wide grin. âNow thereâs a face I recognise!â
Root rolled her eyes. âIâd hate to interrupt this reunion, but weâre on a bit of a clock.â
Tomas nodded. âIâd love to get out of here as soon as possible too, butâŠâ he motioned with his chin to his hands which were still tied up above his head.Â
Shaw spotted a folding knife tucked in the boot of one of the unconscious men. She walked over to retrieve the knife and proceeded to cut down the rope.Â
Tomas smiled. âItâs been a while. I see youâre still in the business of saving my life.â
Shaw snorted. âDonât flatter yourself, Tomas. Iâm in the business of saving lives in general. Although I see that youâre still in the business of getting into trouble with powerful people.â
âWell I have to keep things interesting,â Tomas said as Shaw severed the last ligaments of rope holding him up. He rubbed his wrists to bring back the circulation into them. âMy offer still stands if you ever want to-â his words were interrupted as Root shoved the tuxedo into his face.
âYouâll need to put this on - quickly.â
Tomas shrugged and started shedding his clothes. Root and Shaw turned around to give him some privacy.
âHey, whatâs up with you?â Shaw whispered to Root out of earshot.
âWe have another mission to finish, and it canât exactly wait while you and Mr. Charming Thief get reacquainted.â
âSo,â Tomas said as tucking in his shirt as he walked up to them, âWhatâs the plan?â
âThere is a very important hard drive hidden somewhere in this building-â
âI know where it is,â Tomas chimed in.
Shaw looked over at him. âYou do?â
âYou donât think itâs pure coincidence that I was abducted and held here, do you? I worked a job with a new group recently and overheard them talking about this hard drive and how it contains very sensitive government information - the kind of information can be very dangerous if accessed by the wrong people.â
âAnd so you came here to retrieve this hard drive out of the goodness of your own heart?â Root responded. âDidnât think you were the selfless type, Tomas.â
âI figured it wouldnât hurt to ask for a little bit of spare change in exchange for our governmentâs deepest secrets.â A look of intrigue crossed Tomasâ face. âIâm sorry - who are you again?â
âYou can call me Root. I work closely with Sameen here.â
Tomas turned to Shaw. âAh, so itâs Sameen. I never thought you looked much like a Nadya.â
Shaw shrugged. âBelieve me, itâs not a name I would have chosen for myself.â
âAnyway,â Root continued, âTomas, since you know where the drive is being kept, you and Sameen will need to go and retrieve them.â She turned to Shaw.âThereâs a surveillance room on the second floor. I will hack into the mansionâs security system and disable it while you two retrieve the drive. The security system can only stay offline for 15 minutes before it automatically reboots, so youâll need to get out of there by then or risk getting caught - do you think you and Tomas can handle that?â
âOf course - this is what Iâm good at,â Tomas said, winking at Shaw.
âSubtle,â Root murmured, rolling her eyes. She headed towards the door. âNo time to waste now, kids - letâs move.âÂ
They split up - with Root headed towards the security room and Shaw and Tomas in search of the room holding the hard drive.
âYour friend - she doesnât like me very much, does she?â Tomas asked as he led the way down the hall.Â
âSheâs not really a people person,â Shaw replied, checking to see how many rounds she had left in the magazine of her stolen gun.
Tomas held up a hand to signal Shaw to stop as they approached the room containing the  hard drive. They crouched down on either side of the door to listen for movement inside and Shaw heard the familiar crackle in her ear as the comms turned on.Â
âHey sweetie. How are we on finding that drive?â
âWeâre workinâ on it. You found the security room yet?â
âAlready here,â Root said, watching the screens. âYouâve got fifteen minutes starting now. There are two guards waiting for you on the other side of that door. Take them out and then find the safe hidden behind the Monet painting on the east wall.â
âAnd then let Tomas work his magic on the safe. Got it.â
Root scrunched up her nose. âI wouldnât really call it âmagicâ, more of a convenient skill. If you want magic, I can show you later-â
Shaw rolled her eyes as she tapped to turn off her earpiece. She turned to Tomas. âIâll take out the bad guys, you crack the safe. Itâs behind the Monet painting on the east wall.â
Tomas nodded and Shaw proceeded to knock on the door.
A tall, burly man in a suit opened the door. âWhat are you doing here? Youâre not supposed to be in this area.â
âI saw a suspicious looking man walk down the hall just now,â Shaw said, pointing down the corridor.
The man craned his head to look down the hall and Shaw quickly knocked him out with her pistol.Â
âHey! Whatâs going on?â The second man shouted, rushing towards the door and looking down at his fallen comrade.
âJust trying to see how long it would take for you to figure out that itâs not smart to turn your back on an opponent,â Shaw deadpanned.
âWhat?âÂ
Before the man had a chance to draw his gun, Shaw had already jumped on his back and put him into a sleeper hold. Once he slumped to the ground, Shaw looked up at Tomas. âGet to the safe. We have eight minutes before the security system comes back on and the alarm goes off.â
They ran to the Monet painting and took it down, revealing the antique safe embedded in the wall behind it.Â
âI donât have any of my tools with me, so Iâll have to improvise.â
Shaw grinned. âWho doesnât love a good challenge?â
Shaw stood guard as Tomas carefully turned the dial on the safe, listening for subtleties in the clicks that would indicate the numbers of the combination.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Shaw quickly drew her gun and pointed it at the direction of the door.
âHey kids, having fun?â Root asked, casually stepping over the two unconscious bodies by the door and walking into the room.
Shaw relaxed and lowered her weapon. âRoot. How are we on time?â
âYouâve got two minutes and twenty-seven seconds before the security system comes back on and the alarm goes off.â She turned to Tomas. âNo pressure,â she chirped.
Tomas grinned. âI thrive under pressure,â he said, continuing his work on the safe.
They all heard a click as the safe door swung open and revealed the hard drive inside.Â
âNice work,â Shaw said to Tomas as Root took out the hard drive and put it into her bag.Â
Root headed toward the door. âLetâs go!â
Shaw and Tomas quickly followed Root back out into the hallway.
âWe need to get back into the ballroom and leave through the front door,â Root instructed. âWhen the security system reboots, the lights will go out for five seconds. We need to get back into the ballroom through the west doors during those five seconds.â
Tomas turned to Shaw, âHow does she know all this?â
Shaw shook her head. âYou donât wanna know.â
They arrived at the west doors just as lights shut down. Shaw quickly slipped through the doors and back into the ballroom. Tomas was about to follow when they heard footsteps hurry toward them.
âHey! What are you two doing here? You are not allowed in this area of the property!â
Thinking quickly, Root swiftly punched Tomas in the stomach and he doubled over in pain. She patted his back and looked up at the security guard approaching them.Â
âWeâre so sorry. My husband must have eaten something that did not agree with his stomach so weâre just trying to find a bathroom - right honey?â
âYeah, I think it must have been the shrimp,â Tomas groaned through his teeth.
âOnly authorised personnel are allowed in this part of the property. Thereâs a bathroom if you go back through the ballroom.â
Root flashed him a smile. âThank you, we really appreciate it!â
They went back through the doors into the ballroom where Shaw was waiting.Â
âWhat happened to you two?â Shaw asked, eyeing Tomas who was still doubled over in pain.Â
âWe got spotted by one of the security guys just as we were about to follow you. I had to think fast.â Root turned to Tomas. âIâm really sorry about that, but I suppose youâd rather endure a little punch to the stomach than a bullet to the head?â She asked, absolutely no trace of remorse in her voice. âWell if you put it that way,â Tomas grunted, still wincing.
Shaw raised an eyebrow at Root, who shrugged innocently. âAnyway, it looks like we did what we came here to do. Now, before we leave I need to get me some more of those truffled quail eggs.â
. . . .
âI guess itâs time for me to say goodbye. Thank you for getting me out of there, ladies,â Tomas said once the three of them had returned to the safehouse and wiped the hard drive. âWe work pretty well together. Let me know if youâre both ever in the market for a more lucrative career.â
Shaw snorted. âAs tempting as that sounds, I think Iâd rather avoid pissing off obscenely rich people with connections to the mob.â
âWell thatâs too bad,â Tomas said, stepping toward Shaw to give her a goodbye kiss on the cheek. âWe could have made a great team.â
Shaw glanced over his shoulder at Root, who was perched on the dining table with a tight grip on her taser. Tomas turned around and approached Root, extending his hand to shake hers.
âI can see why Sameen turned down my offer last time,â he said low enough so that Shaw couldnât hear. âLooks like there are things that she cares about here.â He winked at Root before turning around. âWell, Iâve got a plane to catch. Got a job in Paris that promises a lot of adventure and of course a lot of money. I hope to see both you you again sometime - although maybe under different circumstances.âÂ
After Tomas left, Root hopped off the table and sauntered towards Shaw. âWell I can definitely understand what you saw in him - he really is very charming.â
âAnd yet Iâm still here putting my life on the line to work as a vigilante with zero pay and no 401K.â
âWe also have a dog.â
âHeâs the only reason Iâm still here.â
âThe only reason?â
âFine, I guess there are a few perks to the job.â
âWhy donât we head to the bedroom and Iâll show you a few of those perks right now?â
Shaw rolled her eyes but allowed Root to take her hand and tug her towards the direction of the bedroom.
fumbling through the grey
Secret Santa Gift by @fulmentus!
â
âFancy seeing you here.â
Shaw blinks once, twice. Thinks about slamming the window shut again because are you serious? âRoot,â she says, voice low, âwhat the hell are you doing?â
(She should be used to this, Root dropping by when she least expects. But Shaw figured that sheâd be out doing whatever the Machine told her to do.
Since the whole Samaritan thing is going down soon.)
Root shrugs, and Shaw canât exactly see her in the lack of light, her silhouette only highlighted by the streetlights that glow several floors below them. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other.
âIâm in need of your doctor abilities.â
And Shaw definitely wants to shut the window and pretend this never happened.
âSo you thought the best way to ask was to stand on my fire escape at,â Shaw pulls her phone from her back pocket, checks the time, âtwo in the morning?â
Shaw should sleeping, honestly, warm underneath her blankets while plotting the best way to steal Bear (and hoping that the Machine doesnât 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.
âFine. Get in.â
And she doesnât need to see Root to know that sheâs smirking in that infuriating way of hers. Shaw moves to the bathroom where she keeps her supplies, calculates the fastest way to deal with Rootâs 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. Itâs a miracle she doesnât trip over herself with all of those gangly limbs.
When she returns, Root hasnât 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.
âYou gonna show me or not?â
And Shaw regrets the way she phrased it the second Rootâs eyes train on her, a more pronounced smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.
She shrugs off her coat. âI thought youâd never ask.â
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, thereâd been a hole in Rootâs 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.
âWhat did the Machine have you doing?â Shaw asks after a moment, unnerved by Rootâs silence and not knowing why sheâs encouraging this. But the ire from having been disturbed so late has faded, and maybe sheâs 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.
âPreparing.â Shaw arches a brow. âThereâs a war coming, Shaw. We need to be ready.â
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 arenât doing much about it.
Just Root.
âYou ever gonna let us in on whatever plans you have?â Shaw asks as she finishes the neat row of stitches, pulling the thread taut.
âWhen She tells me itâs time,â Root replies, pulling that whole mysterious bullshit.
âWhatever.â She places a bandage over the stitches, folding the edges across Rootâs skin, and Shaw can feel Rootâs attention on her then, eyes burning into the the top of her head. She pulls back. âAll set.â
Root grins, rises to her feet. âThanks, Doc.â She slides her arms through her coat.
âYou heading out?â
Shaw wonders where she sleeps â 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 doesnât give her a place to stay.
âAre you inviting me to stay?â Root steps into Shawâs space, and Shaw tilts her chin up to meet her gaze, blinks slowly.
âNo.â
To her credit, Root doesnât appear put out.
âBut try the door next time.â
âNext time?â
Shaw regrets letting Root through her window.
â
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 Rootâs 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 thereâs a sort of disconnect there, Shaw notices after she patches up Root for the third time in a month. A disconnect from her body.
Itâs different, noting that about her. Because Shaw has always been firmly planted within herself, aware of how her body moves, where itâs positioned in relation to her adversaries. A connection sheâs honed since her residency and carried with her through the Marines and the ISA.
But Root doesnât share that, doesnât seem to want to spend time on such trivial things like making sure she doesnât bleed to death.
(Weird how the Machine chose someone with such a blatant disregard for her health to be its eyes and ears.)
Shaw doesnât comment, just stitches up Rootâs newest injury, and watches her disappear out the door and into the night.
â
Once Samaritan comes online, letting Root through her door happens fairly less often.
With all of them in hiding, keeping their heads down, itâs 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 thereâs this persistent nagging in the back of her mind whenever Root leaves on a mission for the Machine. This urge to know if Rootâs taking care of herself properly â she never did even when Samaritan wasnât 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 thatâs the mission. And Shaw knows how to handle the mission better than anything else.
â
âWe really have to stop meeting like this.â
Thatâs what Root goes with after sheâs been shot twice, combatted that blonde bitch without backup, and disappeared for a day without a word. Thatâs what Root goes with as she leans heavily against Shawâs 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.
âMoving fast, are we?â 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. âYouâre an idiot,â she remarks when she looks at Root again, noting the shadows under her eyes and the stark white bandage peeking from underneath her shirt.
âIâve actually been known to be a genius.â 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 Rootâs shirt. âOff.â
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.
âYou shouldâve had backup,â Shaw mutters, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.
Root sighs. âWeâve been over this, Shaw.â She shakes her head, messy waves of brown hair cascading over her uninjured shoulder. âIt would have blown your cover.â
(Covers. Thatâs all Rootâs 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.)
âBitch couldâve killed you,â Shaw says instead, swallowing down the flood of angry words. âWhat then?â
âShe didnât,â Root reminds her, like that means anything. Like she isnât sitting in Shawâs apartment bleeding from yet another bullet wound.
âYouâre not bulletproof.â
âClearly.â
âNext time, youâre getting back up.â Shaw neatly ties off the end of the stitches. âDonât care what the Machine thinks.â
Root peers through her lashes, lips quirking into a tiny smile. âIs that concern I hear, Sameen?â
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 thereâs something about it thatâs different than the flirtation Shaw is accustomed to. And itâs not the first time sheâs 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 doesnât do feelings. Not at the intensity of everyone else.
They are shallow echoes in her chest â like when her father died, when Cole died â quiet murmurs in the back of her mind. Ones that have compelled her to become a doctor, become a Marine, accept the ISAâs request.
The feeling of doing the right thing because she has the choice to.)
She doesnât do what Root is doing. Doesnât 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.)
âYou can take the couch.â
Rootâs brows rise, and she cants her head to the side. âAre you asking me to stay?â Itâs 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 itâs the way that Root seems generally unmoored, lost.
âIâm saying the couch is open.â Shaw points to the wound she just patched up. âShouldnât be doing anything extensive with that.â
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.
âThank you.â
Itâs 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 thatâs been buzzing through her since she knew Root was still relatively intact.
â
âThe Machine, she isnât talking to you, is she?â
Itâs after another long number, another number that required Shaw saving Reeseâs 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 hasnât said a word.
âThatâs why youâve been all Eeyore lately?â
And with Root half-shrouded in shadow, itâs hard to read her face, but Shaw likes to think she knows her well enough to recognize when Root is hiding something.
âI get murmurs,â Root finally answers, voice barely above a whisper. âShe canât talk with Samaritan online.â
Shaw can hear the sadness bleeding through her tone, doesnât know what to say to that. How do you comfort someone whoâs lost their connection to an artificial super intelligence they view as a god?
(Not that Shaw has ever been one to comfort someone.)
âRoot,â she starts, weirdly uncertain of why sheâs even bothering to speak, âsorry she canât talk to you right now.â
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 Rootâs warmth is mixing with her own.
Shaw stiffens when Root rests her head on her shoulder, but she doesnât shove her off. Kind of enjoys the way Rootâs hair is soft against her neck.
They donât speak after that, and Shaw doesnât remove Root from her shoulder until she starts to feel it go numb.
(She does offer the couch to her again, so at least thereâs that.)
â
Afterwards, Root crashing into her apartment becomes a near regular thing whenever sheâs in town, which isnât very often since sheâs constantly being shipped off all over the world.
But she always appears at Shawâs 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 Shawâs never had someone match her heat with equal fervor.
(Maybe itâs the desperation of the war, or maybe itâs because Root knows how to read into everything Shaw wants in a sexual partner.
But itâs better than any sex Shaw has experienced.)
She lets Root stay.
â
Itâs 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 thatâs a thought.
Everything around her is tainted, and Shaw finds herself trying to remember what was real and what wasnât more than she does anything else.)
But Root helps.
When the sun dips and the sky darkens and every nerve ending in Shawâs body is on fire â itâs not real, that didnât happen â Root is there. Gentle fingers wrapped around Shawâs wrist, tugging her hand away from the side of her neck.
Away from the skin Shawâs rubbed raw ever since sheâs 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 Shawâs mind. Tells Shaw about the numbers she and Reese worked when Shaw was gone.
Tells her of the wedding they crashed â well, I crashed, Root amends with a crooked smile, fingers running through the strands of hair at Shawâs temple, I wasnât 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 Rootâs voice in her ear, and Bearâs presence anchoring her to the present.
â
It takes time. Takes an annoyingly long amount of time for Shaw to stop questioning every little thing thatâs off (it never goes away, that clawing doubt in the back of her mind, that scraping at her throat that this isnât real), but she gets there.
Gets to a point where sheâs more or less like to her old self.
(No one could have survived what you went through, Root assures her, confident in Shaw â always confident in Shaw â vehement in the face of Shawâs 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 wonât get back, but they didnât succeed.
Shaw didnât break.
And with Root with her at every step of the way, knowing when to back off, knowing when to be near, knowing that Shaw opened that door to her months ago and let her slip right in, Shaw rebuilds.
Happy Hunting
Shoot Secret Santa Gift by @lizburnz!
The navigation system chimes, âYou have reached your destination,â and Shaw mashes on the brakes, simultaneously as she cuts the wheel.
The car screeches to a halt, slanted in a parallel spot, ridden halfway up the curb in front of some apartment buildings and a few startled pedestrians. She slams the gear into park and bolts before the tire smoke even has a chance to settle. Anything else vehicular related is irrelevant now, as she leaves the door hanging wide open and the engine still running.Â
Root needs her- needs her help. With what? Specifically, Shaw doesn't know, but the short text with more exclamation points than words seemed pretty damn urgent. And since Root's phone has been going straight to voice mail ever since, she believes the threat to be serious, something that requires a second gun and Shaw's most preferred method of intervention. Shooting.Â
But the neighborhood is quiet. Well, not that it shouldn't be, this early on a Saturday morning, but when Root's involved in anything there's usually some degree of chaos. Oddly, nothing seems to be out of place. No smoke means no fire, no screaming means no gunshots have recently gone off. The only person running like their life depended on it, is Shaw, who's starting to wonder if she's even at the right place.Â
But it is the right place. 314 Avenue C. And Shaw knows this because it says so. Right there on the door. Behind Root.Â
The woman who cried wolf lounges casually at the foot of the stoop, without a scratch on her head or a single care in the world. And though Shaw is somewhat relieved by the sight of neither dead nor dying Root, it doesn't make her any less perturbed, being pulled out of bed at the brink of dawn because someone can't quite grasp what constitutes an emergency.Â
Shaw drags her feet the rest of the way, shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets so Root can't see how tightly they're balled into fists. She doesn't want to do anything she might regret, like punch a certain grin off a certain someone's face. Not until she has a valid reason at least.Â
âGood morning,â Root sing songs in her usual pleasant way.Â
âWhat is it this time?â Shaw asks, bypassing formalities completely. The faster she gets to the point, the faster she can turn down whatever it is and go home.Â
âLet's see...â Root glances to the imaginary watch on her wrist. âFifty-eight city blocks in less than twelve minutes. Wow, Shaw! I think you broke your old record.â
Shaw's eyes flutter into the back of her head. âWhy am I here, Root?â
âIsn't that the age old question?â Root ambles to her feet with a large cup of coffee in hand. âWhole milk. No sugar. Just the way you like it,â she says, extending it towards a wary Shaw.Â
Whether it's a hot cup-o-bribery or a peace offering, Shaw isn't sure, but she takes it anyway. âYou know, this doesn't even begin to make up for-â
âDo you like hunting?â Root asks peculiarly and out of nowhere.Â
Shaw just blinks. There isn't enough caffeine in this coffee, or in the entire city of New York, to help prepare her for the roller coaster that is Root's cryptics.Â
The first thing that comes to mind is fugitive tracking of course, a literal man hunt. Now that, Shaw could get on on board with. But knowing Root, it's probably nothing so obvious and easy. It's two very different things, what Shaw thinks and what Root actually means.Â
âIt depends,â Shaw says, reluctant to commit without details first. She's learned the hard way too many times before. âWhat the target is... if I can shoot them... but mostly, my mood.â
âAnd...â Root leans in on the tips of her toes, âWhat kind of mood do you currently find yourself in this lovely day?â
âThe pistol whipping kind of mood if you don't cut the crap and tell me what you want.â
Root pouts half-heartedly, slipping a piece of paper from her coat pocket, to which Shaw snatches and unfolds. Written on it, in barely legible hacker scrawl, is a list of addresses that still do everything but answer Shaw's question.Â
âThey're apartments,â Root clarifies. âI need your help finding one.â
A map could do a better job. Hell, Root's practically got a GPS system and then some squawking in her ear. But maybe it's more than that, Shaw thinks. Maybe there's a bomb planted in one, or a missing person tied to a radiator. Looking closer at the list, she finds a four digit number beside each address. Next to that, some kind of code... 2/1 1700SF W/D...Â
But it isn't until Shaw reads the part about âno petsâ that she shoves the paper back at Root.Â
âThis is why you 911'd me? To help you house hunt!â Shaw says, gaping in amazement. âAre you out of your damn mind?â
Root throws her an obvious look.Â
âI thought you were...â Hurt. Dying. Both. The potential of either could light a fire of apocalyptic proportions under Shaw's ass, and Root seems to relish the fact. âDo you know how many traffic laws I just broke?â
Root shrugs. âAll of them, I imagine.â
Shaw deadpans her for a moment, mystified as she internally debates whether or not she should spoil her knuckles today with an all you can beat buffet of Root's face. Shaw nearly mowed down a group of tourists crossing the street, sideswiped about a dozen parked cars, ran every single red light while doing quadruple the speed limit. For christsake, she car jacked someone at gunpoint. And for what? For the exciting, once in a lifetime mission of finding analogue-interfull-of-shit a place to live?
âHappy hunting,â Shaw eventually says and turns heel in the opposite direction. And of course it isn't the last word. Root follows on her heals and whines in her wake, with things like please and wait and a few pet names she isn't allowed to call Shaw in public.Â
âYou're bored, I get it,â Shaw tells her in stride. âThe Machine gave you the day off, so instead of annoying relevant numbers, you've decided to annoy me instead. I get it.â
âNo, that isn't-â Root groans in frustration. âWill you please just hear me out?â and she hooks an arm around Shaw's to stop her. âI called you because, one, I value your opinion. And two, I thought you'd like to be a part of a mutually beneficial decision.â
âHow in the world does this benefit me?â
âThink of it like this. The sooner I get a key to my own place, the sooner you can have yours back,â Root says and places an encouraging hand on Shaw's shoulder, which is batted off not a second later when the information is really processed.
âYou have a key to my apartment?â
âI made copies.â
âWait. Copies, plural?â As in more than one? âSeriously, Root. What the fuck.â
âLook, we can stand here, arguing semantics for the next 45 seconds until your stolen vehicle is swarmed by cops, plural, or...â Root jingles a set of car keys like a carrot on a stick. âI'll even let you drive,â she adds, and Shaw doesn't have much time to mull it over, not with all the sirens wailing in the distance.Â
âFine,â Shaw finally agrees, though it was a tough decision to make. The back seat of a squad car or Root's- where is her car?Â
She presses the clicker and follows the faint little beep across the street, to where the vintage muscle car sits. Not just any muscle car though, a cherry red, 1967 Mustang twin turbo V8 in pristine condition. And Shaw knows this, because it looks just like the car Harold has, locked in his garage. The one he brags about all the time, having spent years restoring it to near mint. The one he never drives or lets anyone else drive, for the matter.Â
âHow'd you get Finch to lend you his car?â Shaw asks, quickly realizing how dumb her question sounds aloud. Especially to Root, who just throws her head back and laughs.Â
âŠ
The first stop of the list is on the upper east side, to a twenty something story apartment building fitted with a starch press suited doorman and a security guard station, which Shaw deems is more for appearances sake. Armed with walkies, flashlights, and pens for the sign in sheet, they let Root and Shaw breeze right by with their fake ID's and concealed weapons.
It's no surprise when Root hits the âPâ for penthouse button in the elevator. She's not exactly the humble type, or one to underplay any sort of small endeavor.
A well dressed blonde woman greets them right off the elevator, shining a permanent smile of all veneer that never lets up even while she speaks. Root gingerly accepts the pamphlet offered, glossing over it as she absently wanders about the main living area, which is two times bigger than Shaw's entire apartment. And white. All white. The carpets, the walls, even the staging furniture. Lord forbid anyone so much as whisper the words red wine or tomato sauce, or in Root's predictable case, blood.Â
âSeems nice,â Root says while Shaw shuffles alongside like a bored child.Â
âThen buy it.â The sooner Root signs the deal, the sooner she can get back to her regularly scheduled program of having absolutely nothing to do on her day off.Â
âThe master bath apparently has a built in sauna...â Root gives her a little nudge, âGuess how many settings the smart shower has?â
âEnough to replace me.â
âNot likely,â but then Root lowers the pamphlet in introspect. âUnless I could program it to be mean to me...â
âHa. Ha.â
âI'm gonna have a look around.â
âAnd I...â Shaw scans the room, searching for the oasis in this desert of white hell, â...will see you later,â and she branches off towards the refreshment table.
It's probably the best thing about an open house. Well, if you're Shaw and you have no intent on buying anything. The free food. And not just tired old finger sandwiches either. The last time Shaw's seen a spread like this, she was undercover at a political fundraiser for what's his name running for office of who cares.Â
Shaw sips a bellini from a flute as she grazes the table, helping herself to a little of this and that. At some point she does make threatening eye contact with the foolish person who tried reaching for the last salmon wrap, but all is pleasant and well for the most part. She get's to explore her pallet, Root gets to explore the apartment. A win-win so far in her book.Â
âGod! You wont believe the offer that tacky-khaki couple just proposed.â
Inconspicuously, Shaw glances a little ways to her right. The fake toothed woman who greeted them earlier stands with another, conversing in whispers and hushed voices. Well they'd like to believe no one else can hear them.
âAn open house... what was Harriet thinking? Letting anyone waltz in off the street?â
âWe'll have to fumigate when this is over.â
âWould you look at all the riff-raff?â
Shaw follows the acrylic red finger nail as it not so discretely flicks across the room. Of all the people scattered about the living area, she decides to pick out Root.Â
âWhat do you think her net worth is?â
âIf that ugly leather jacket's anything to go by. I saw holes in it.â
âAnd the hair...
âI like her boots though...â
âSo did I- five seasons ago!â
Their annoying laughter eventually fades into the violin music, but Shaw's temper continues on it's high note. In her head, she's already plotted half the steps towards their accidental deaths, because no one â no one â is allowed to talk crap about Root. Except for Shaw, that is.Â
And under any other circumstance, she'd just go over there and confront the two women with a lesson in manners. Incidentally, fists are a great learning tool for most people.Â
Oh, but where would that get her? Wanted by the police, probably, if that little car jacking stunt didn't already land a warrant for her arrest. But it would be fun, well fun for Shaw, to give those rent-a-cops downstairs a run for their money.Â
No, she eventually decides. There are more subtle ways to exact revenge.Â
She sidles over to the group of young hipsters first, who have gathered by the fire place pretending to admire the brickwork.Â
âDid one heck of a clean up on this place, huh?â she says, cutting into their conversation at just the right moment.Â
They turn to her with mixed expressions. âWhat do you mean?â one of them asks.Â
Shaw leans in. âOh, you don't know?â she says in a hushed voice, so secretive and curious, it demands the group's undivided attention. All but one.
The guy with thick rimmed glasses just scoffs at her. âWhat? Did some dude die here or something?â
âMore like dudes. Plural,â Shaw replies and glasses guy stops laughing. âA few months back, this tech company was having their big launch party here. Well, during the party, one of the partners totally loses it and I mean loses it. I heard, it was because the other partners were trying to cut him out... guess he thought he'd beat them to it.â and she unfolds the rest of the scene, in graphic detail with complementary stabbing gestures. To the point, a few of them turn a sickly shade of pale.Â
But glasses guy, the apparent leader of the pack, needs more convincing.Â
âCome on! How do you not remember this?â Shaw says, and name drops a famous New York magazine that all the people like them claim to read but never do.Â
And suddenly, him and the rest of the group are singing a different tune, nodding their heads and collectively muttering things like: Oh yes, I remember that article and Such a tragedy and It's too bad, I heard they were really up and coming...Â
âYeah.â Shaw gazes solemnly at the fireplace. âThat's where they found the head... threw it like it was a bowling ball.â
Like before, they stare at the fireplace. Albeit, in utter silence and for new and morbid reasons now, but Shaw takes it as her cue to move on.Â
And move on she does, to the pleasant older couple standing by themselves in the kitchen, which is also bigger than Shaw's apartment as well. They look a bit out of place. Suburban, perhaps midwestern. Shaw isn't sure just yet, but they definitely aren't like the rest of the people who live here.Â
âExcuse me,â Shaw says, all smile and cheer. âI couldn't help but notice, you two aren't from around here, are you?â
âOh, heavens no!â The woman replies. Her accent is unmistakably southern and thick as molasses. âWe're visiting our daughter. She just graduated from NYU!â
âEdna, you don't gotta tell everyone we meet,â the husband grumbles. âHell, half of New York City knows by now.â
âNo, it's fine,â Shaw politely reassures them. âYou two must be very proud. Are you looking to move here as well, or?â
The woman side eyes the man. âWell, I would like to... It'd be nice to live closer to our little girl. Not to mention the broadway... But Richard here's an old stick in the mud.â she leans in to whisper only to Shaw, âHe doesn't take to change very well.â The man grumbles again.Â
âI totally understand. When I first moved here, it took me a while to get acclimated. I mean, the first time I was mugged-â
âYou were mugged?â The woman clasps her chest. âOh, you poor thing!â
âYeah, well,â she shrugs, âYou get used to it. After a dozen times or so it's just like muscle memory. Wallet, phone, jewelry, please don't kill me.â Shaw acts it out like a routine. The grand finale, pulling the bottom of her shirt. âI was stabbed a block away from here, wanna see the scar?â
Their southern manners come to a full stop and they leave without so much as a goodbye or a bless your heart. Filled with a sense of crudely gained accomplishment, Shaw blows the smoke from the imaginary barrel of her imaginary gun and sets her sights on other targets.Â
One by one, they're taken out. She tells the uptight newly weds the apartment had been used as a movie set for prestigious films such as Gang-Bangs of New York, and One Fuck Over the Cuckhold's Nest, and Forrest Hump.Â
The leader of the co-op board has a portrait of Hitler hanging in his foyer. The neighbor downstairs is prone to clanging pots and pans at odd hours of the night because the voices tell her to. The walls are coated with so much lead paint, the apartment could double as a fallout shelter from radiation. And the whole building is haunted by failed venture capitalists, Shaw said to another person, and when his back was turned, she flickered the light switches.Â
And alright, that last one was mediocre at best, she admits. But in her defense, the one too many bellinis were starting to kick in a that point and she was running out of material. Thankfully, Root had come full circle by then, finished with her browsing.Â
âWhat do you think?â
âI heard the foundation's crumbling-â Shaw covers her mouth, pushing back the bubbly. âWhole place is gonna level in like a year.â
Root flashes her a look of disbelief, âThat's absurd,â and returns to the brochure in hand. âI think it's pretty nice,â she says, and goes on and on about all the nice features and the nice amenities and the nice view.
âYou!âÂ
They look up and see the teethy realtor clomping her heels in their direction. âAw, shit,â Shaw whispers when the woman turns her pointed red nail to her this time.
âJust where the hell do you get off! I lost potential buyers because of you!â
Shaw blinks, unfazed by this woman practically yelling in her face. However, Root's rather confused, bordering the edge of worried.Â
âWhat is she talking about?â Root asks, one of her hands sliding to the taser tucked in the back of her pants. Hovering, like she's unsure whether or not it's going to be necessary in the next ten seconds. Â
âI don't know,â Shaw replies with an innocent shrug at first, until she completely abandons the concept of an inside voice. âMust be all the asbestos in the air!â she shouts and the rest of the room, the few people she hadn't managed to scare off, they all clam up and turn bug eyed in their direction.Â
For a moment, the realtor panics and her fake smile returns to settle the crowd. âYou need to leave!â she says through gritted teeth. âBoth of you need to leave, immediately!â
âWay ahead of ya, sister.â Shaw says and calls out over her shoulder, âWouldn't want to get a stupid thing like lung cancer or anything!â At this point, Root looks like she's going to taser Shaw instead.Â
âLet's go, Sameen,â she says, perturbed and not in a mild way, judging from grip she has on Shaw's elbow.Â
And still... âReally, you think they'd shell out a few extra bucks to remove hazardous materials from the walls!â Shaw manages one last time before she's shoved into the elevator.
Root jabs the lobby button and the doors close. She turns to Shaw with a myriad of emotions, some embarrassment, a little confusion, but mostly anger in her eyes. Shaw can feel them boring into the side of her face.
âWhat?â Shaw eventually shrugs. âSomething you wanna say, Root?â
Root crosses her arms, tightly over her chest. âSomething you wanna say, Shaw?â
Shaw rolls her eyes to the top of the door, watching the floor numbers fall on the screen for moment before clearing her throat. âYour hair looks nice today.â
âŠ
Miles later in Midtown...
Together, they loiter the sidewalk in front of the next apartment Root might potentially rent, if the realtor ever decides to make an appearance. They've been waiting over a half an hour now.Â
âWhat's taking so long?â Shaw asks, again.Â
âTraffic, probably.â Root shrugs. She doesn't seem to mind the waiting as much as Shaw does. Then again, she doesn't have anywhere else to be. And neither does Shaw, but that's besides the point. Tardiness is just unprofessional.Â
âCall them.â
âI've already called five times,â Root tells her. âNo one's picking up.â
âWhen?â Shaw asks. She hadn't seen Root touch her phone at all.Â
Root just taps the shell of the cochlear implant hiding beneath her hair. Oh yes, how could have Shaw forgotten, the ethereal blue tooth connection to robot overlord.Â
âI still don't understand why the Machine couldn't help you with this,â Shaw says to her. âSeems it'd be a heck of a lot easier. Beep boop beep... an apartment appears.â
Root smirks at her sideways, âYou know that's not how it works.âÂ
âWhy not? I mean, she can make up elaborate identities for you, reposition satellites in orbit for you-â
âShe can also tell me how many times you've watched Eat, Pray, Love... this month.â
Shaw glares to the side of Root's face trying, and failing to keep the amusement all to herself. But she's distracted for a moment, there's a passerby who's taking too long to pass by Harold's car. âKeep moving! So her abilities fall just short of finding her favorite asset a place to live?â
âShe wants me to be more...â Root chews the inside of her cheek, âIndependent, was the word she used.â
For once, Shaw's in agreement with Root's girlfriend.Â
âI'm pretty sure this is the exact opposite of what she meant,â Shaw teases. That is unless, the definition of independence changed over night and no one bothered to say anything.Â
âShe also thinks we don't spend enough quality time together,â Root quickly adds, casually with a flip of her hair.Â
âYeah, right,â Shaw scoffs at that. She'd like to know what the Machine would have to say about being slandered and used as a pawn for Root's own projections. âWe spend lots of time together. Too much if you ask me.â
âNumbers don't count.â
âYou come over all the time,â Shaw argues. Root just lets herself right in, with all those keys she's made.
âSex doesn't count either.â
âThen what- Hey buddy! You wanna lose that hand!â Shaw shouts at a particularly touchy admirer of Harold's car. âWhat does count?â she finally asks. Really, she wants to know, how she can possibly spread her time thinner than it already is. âDoes this count?â
Root thinks about it for a moment. âI'm not sure yet. But I'll let you know.â
âRight.â Shaw shakes her head; Root can be impossible at times. The 'issue' can go on the back burner for now, Shaw decides. They've got to move forward with the day, which is no longer dependent on the no-show realtor.Â
The front door of the building is locked, go figure, but that doesn't repel Shaw. There's an intercom system right beside it with dozens of names, each having their own call button. Shaw mashes all of them and waits.Â
In no time does the speaker crackle with static and slews of voices, speaking all at once in a melody of Hello? Who is it? and What the fuck do you want?
âTime Warner Cable,â Shaw says into the box and almost immediately, a buzzer goes off and unlocks the door. Shaw opens it and turns to Root still waiting on the sidewalk. âYou coming or what?â
Root leads her upstairs and down the short hallway. âThis is the one,â she says, pointing to the lock for Shaw to pick, which she does so effortlessly.
The inside is just as bland as the outside. The walls are coated in a neutral beige color that matches the carpet in all the rooms. A single bedroom, an eat in kitchen, a reasonably sized living area with a few windows and an okay view of the coffee shop all these midtowners mill about. And that's pretty much it. Though, Shaw thinks that was Martha Stewart crossing the intersection.Â
âI don't hate it,â Root sums up, having toured the entire place in less than a minute.Â
âBut you don't like it either.â
âEh.â Root shrugs. âIt's just hard to picture myself living here, without my things.â
An idea pops into Shaw's head. âOkay, how about...â she thinks aloud and surveys the area. âYour desk can be here, in the living room, since you don't watch TV anyways...â She moves to the kitchen next. âYou can put a little cafe table here... coffee pot here... and hey look, extra cabinet space for things that aren't cooking related.â
âI know how to cook, Shaw.â
âName one time you cooked anything,â Shaw asks, but immediately stops Root the second her mouth opens. âLet me rephrase. Cooked anything that wasn't eventually used as tear gas.â
âOkay, you've got me there,â Root concedes. âPlease continue.â
Shaw leads her to the bedroom. âThe bed can go here. Nightstand with the lava lamp right next to it. Dresser here. Bean bag- if you still want it, there. The closet's kinda small... you'll have to get rid of a few jackets, but-â
âWait,â Root interrupts. âGo back to the part about the bed.â
Shaw back tracks a few steps. âThe bed goes here and-â
âRight here?â Root asks, edging closer and closer.Â
And Shaw's so distracted with her fake floor plan, she thinks nothing of it. She doesn't realize Root's been methodically backing her into the wall until her back actually hits the wall.Â
âAnd, what do you imagine we'd be doing on this bed, Sameen?â Her voice drops an octave in Shaw's ear, tingling like those fingertips skirting the inside hem of her jeans.Â
âI can think of a few things...â Shaw whispers, tracing the heat radiating from Root's lips inches away from her own. âOn this bed, and then, that bureau over there.â
Root flashes a grin and presses it to Shaw's, briefly though. The kiss was only a ruse to take Shaw's lip between her teeth and tease some more before letting go. âI want you to know...â Root sighs as her hands circle around Shaw's wrists, âI'm really sorry about this.â
What that means? Shaw doesn't know. She barely had time to process anything Root said, because as soon as Root said it, she was spun around and pinned to wall with her arms locked behind her back.Â
âWhatthafuck!â
âJust go with it sweetie,â Root tells her, and not a second later do they hear footsteps coming down the hall and a man's voice calling out shakily. âHello? Is someone there?â
He double takes when he sees them, his face conveying a look of surprise and slight fear for his life. âWhat's going on here? Who are you?â
âSpecial Agent Augusta King,â Root announces. As swiftly as she got the jump on Shaw, her free hands whips out a black leather bound badge that says FBI. âWe received an anonymous tip about a wanted criminal hiding out in the building.â
âHere? In this building?â the man stutters in shock.
âAre you the tipper, sir?â Root asks, meanwhile, zip tying Shaw's wrists together for the bonus effect. So tight, Shaw thinks she's actually in trouble with the federal government.Â
âNo, I live next door, I was just going-â
âSo you heard suspicious activity from the vacant apartment right next to you and didn't think to report it?â Root says, catching him off guard. âSir, are you aware that harboring a fugitive of the law is a felony offense?â
Shaw grumbles, âLike impersonating a-âÂ
Root silences her with a good shove.
âWoah, wait a minute,â the man backs away, hands up in defense. âI had no idea she was- I wouldn't harbor anything!â
âYou'll be hearing from my offices.â Root begins escorting Shaw out into the hallway, pausing to glare at the man as she passes. âDon't leave town.â
By the time they exit the front door, Shaw is more than done with the whole charade. Immediately, she shirks out of Roots grip, fuming slightly as she strains for the folding knife in her back pocket. âI can't believe you- no wait, I can!â The zip tie snaps free after a bit of sawing.
âI'm not the one who left the door wide open.â
The few choice words bubbling in the back of Shaw's throat, simmer down. Root's right. She did leave the door open. Like some kind of fucking amateur. She rubs her sore wrists, bitter. âWhat are you still doing with that thing anyway?â
âI don't know.â Root jogs the badge in her hands. âIt does come in handy though.â
Shaw shakes her head. From the corner of her eyes, she notices a suspicious group of hoodlums beginning to circle Harold's car like vultures on a carcass.Â
âGimme that!â Shaw snatches the goddamn badge out of Root's hands and flips it out with an, âFBI! Freeze!â The little bastards bolt in all directions, and Shaw hums to herself. âHow come I never got one of these?âÂ
âŠ
Later and lower on the east side...
Jerri, a fast talking woman from Queens who looks like Fusco's sister, hustles them up the stairs of a run down walk up. The bellinis Shaw guzzled earlier threaten to make a second appearance as they round the landing of floor number six. More so when she sidesteps a ragged baby doll lying in a questionable pool of something awful slicked on the floor.Â
âNot much further,â the woman tells them. âJust a few more floors!â
âShe said that- three floors ago!â Shaw huffs in tow.
âTry to keep up, Shaw,â Root says, jogging the steps with ease, at a steady rhythm that's utterly baffling. Considering Shaw's never seen her so physically active at something that didn't involve
âComing...â Shaw grumbles and picks up the pace. She reaches the top floor well behind them, out of breath. âI gotta start working out again.â
Jerri pulls out a ring of keys bigger than a steering wheel and starts sifting through them. âIt's gotta be one of these,â she says and tries a few but to no avail. âDoh!â she smacks her forehead. âSilly me, we went too high! It's two floors down!â
Shaw deadpans. âAre you fu-â Root jabs her with an elbow, âFunny! Aren't you just funny!âÂ
âDown we go!â Jerri cheers, waving at them to follow her once again. Shaw wouldn't follow this woman if she were the most relevant number of her career. But Root insists, so she has no choice but trudge back down the stairs.Â
The door, the right one this time, it looks like it was breached with a battering ram and glued back together. It sticks as Jerri tries to push it open. Shaw wishes she hadn't been able to unjar it from the frame, when they finally step foot inside.
Cramped is an understatement. Claustrophobia is an increasing possibility for Shaw as they stand shoulder to shoulder in what the realtor calls a studio apartment. More like a closet.Â
âWhy don't I give you the grand tour!â Jerri says.Â
Shaw turns her head left, then right, then back again. âI think I've just had it.â
âOh, she's hysterical! Does she do stand up?â
âOnly when she can't sit down.â Shaw wriggles free of the pair for more space, but doesn't get much. The square footage of this place barely pushes the three digit realm.Â
The detail Jerri goes into as she tries to upsell this apartment gives Shaw the idea, she's either the most optimistic woman in the world or the biggest hustler in New York real estate. And if it's the latter, Root's the most patient mark, letting this con artist finish her entire spiel of blatant lies.Â
âLook Root, I'm in the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. At the same time.â
âI think what my friend is trying to say-â
âHer friend...â Shaw interrupts, until she realizes that Root didn't actually put the word girl in front of friend first. For once. âNever mind, carry on.â
âThere just isn't a lot of space,â Root puts delicately.Â
âSpace? There's plenty of space!â Jerri fires back, jazzed and sorts. âWhat this place lacks in size, it makes for in compartmentalization!â and she goes on to show them, the hidden cabinets in the in the walls, the drawers underneath the diagonal slant in the staircase frame. âAnd!â she claps her hands together before grabbing the the lonely painting from the wide wall. Underneath is a latch like rope, which she pulls. âTada!â
A bed flops out of the wall and Shaw stares at it, unblinkingly. âYou've got to be kidding me.â
âMay we have a moment please?â Root says, and Jerri the realtor goes into the kitchen, two feet away.Â
Shaw whispers to Root. âThis whole thing is one bad pullout joke. You can't actually be serious.â
âSo what?â Root replies. âIt's not like I'll be around to mind it so much.â
âWell, I mind it!âÂ
Root smiles as she bats her lashes. âPlanning sleepovers already?â
âNot if I have to unhinge the bed every time I wanna-â
âWant to what, exactly?â Root teases, for a moment, until Shaw's dead serious face hits home. âOkay, okay.â She clears her throat for Jerri to end her fake phone call. âDo you have anything else available?â
âPreferably not coffin-sized,â Shaw adds.Â
It's like a light bulb flickers over Jerri's head. She frantically searches through the mess of sordid papers in her haphazardly thrown together briefcase until she finds the one. The holy grail of documents, she holds it up. âYes!â she exclaims at first, then presses it to her chest, distraught. âNo, I don't! Technically, the application's still pending and I can't show you.â
âCome on, Jerri,â Root says, putting on half her charm. âWe just wanna look. Where's the harm in that?â
She gives it some thought. Not much. âOh, what the heck? You've convinced me. It's only three floors down, come on, I'll show you.â
âLet's hope she's got the right building at least,â Shaw says and Jerri bursts in laughter.Â
âHoney, if your job doesn't involve a stage and microphone, you gotta change careers because you are-â
âHysterical?âÂ
âŠ
The other apartment is nothing like the previous. It's as if they've slipped into an alternate universe on the stairwell, because there's no possible way this is the same building. Root's in awe the moment she walks in, her eyes lighting up in a way Shaw's never seen before, well, when it comes to this sort of thing.Â
Crown molding lines the walls, coated in a scheme of rich blues soft whites. The long paneled windows that stretch from the living room all the way to the kitchen fill the spacious interior with honest light. And the view, Shaw's never considered Midtown to be a scenic place. Then again, she wasn't looking through this window.Â
âYou've been holding out on us, Jerri,â Shaw tells her. For the first time today, she approves. Â
âAbout that other application,â Root says, âWhat if you accidentally misplaced it?â
âSay no more, sweetheart.â Jerri bats a hand. âMy family's from Sicily. I know all about that sort of thing. We'll go to my office, lose some paperwork, sign some paperwork, have ya in here in no time,â she says, and starts ushering them towards the door. Quickly, adamantly. Suspiciously.Â
âWait,â Shaw says. There's something missing, something she's not telling them. âWhat's the catch?â
âCatch? What catch? You two look like a nice couple, I wanna cut you a break, that's the catch.â
âWe're not-â Shaw rubs the bridge of her nose. âLook, no offense, but this is all too good to be true.â There's got to be something wrong with it, Shaw can feel it in her bones. Shit plumbing, rats in the walls, a weird smell that only comes around during certain times of the day. Something.Â
âListen, I got pristine records going back thirty years on this place. You can take a look for yourselves, but we gotta go down to my office fir-â
âShh!â Shaw holds a finger up, silencing the room. âDid you hear that?â Her ears keen to the faint, muffled noises. âIt's coming from the living room.â
âYeah, you know what,â Jerri hastily explains in Shaw's wake. âI know what that is. The neighbors are redoing their kitchen. On a Saturday, can you believe it?â
Shaw ignores her and presses her ear to the wall, listening for the noise that seems to have gone away now.
âSee? What'd I tell ya? Now if you don't mind, I-â
There's a loud crash suddenly. Something had smacked against the other side of the wall with such force, it rattled the hanging lights and shook the floor.Â
Shaw slowly backs away as more, lesser thumps follow. Steadily, like a beat from a drum. And not seconds later, the moaning starts. Unmistakably from a man and oddly, a very strict sounding woman who seems rather disappointed in him.
âAnd...â Shaw turns to Root with her I told you so face. âthere's the catch.â
âRent controlled nymphos...â Jerri hisses and then smacks the wall, âHey! Some of us are trying to work over here! Not that you care! Can't go one minute without screwing each other's brains out! Literally!â
âAre they?â Curiosity in her eyes, Root steps closer to have a listen for herself, and it's completely unnecessary. With walls so thin and neighbors so loud, she could stand in any room and still hear all the graphic details of their sexcapades. So it's really a bit extra of Root to flatten the whole side of her face against the wall like that. âOh, Jerri, you have been holding out on us.â
Shaw rolls her eyes, âCome on, we're leaving,â and takes Root by the arm.
âNo, Shaw wait! It's getting better!â Root protests as she's literally dragged to the door. âShaw, I heard a paddle!â
âŠ.
The end in East Village.
âI don't think I've ever heard the word charming used to describe so many not charming things in my life,â Shaw says. She fiddles with the butter knife at the table while she waits for her order. They decided- well, Shaw insisted they stop for a late lunch, and the Russian owned deli on 7th was the closest eatery that wasn't a letter grade away from being quarantined. âHow is a giant water stain on the ceiling charming?â
âDepends on how you look at it,â Root replies, her head in the piece of paper lain on the table top. She's been scribbling on it since they sat down. The list from earlier today looks nothing like it did, crumpled up, torn at the edges and for some reason, wet. Nearly all of the address had been crossed out, angrily by the look of it.Â
Shaw twirls the utensil in her fingers. âI thought it looked like Margaret Thatcher.â
âI'm not getting sucked into this argument again.â Root draws another x over something and brings the pen to her lips, chewing at the end. âIt was Barbara Bush anyway...â
Shaw snatches the paper from Root's unsuspecting hands.Â
âHey I need that,â Root says. Her attempts of retrieving it are all in vain. âShaw, I still haven't decided which one I- where did you get those glasses?â
âGlove box,â Shaw replies, lifting the shades from her eyes to squint at the paper. âDidn't think I could get a hangover before I fell asleep.â
âCan I have it back, please? It's important.â
Shaw throws the glasses aside. âRoot, these are all crap. You know this.â
âBut I need to pick one.â
âSeriously, have you never gone apartment shopping before?â Shaw asks. Judging from the look on Root's face, she hasn't. âRoot. Just make a new list.â
She sinks into the booth, whining pitifully. âBut I hate this so much, Shaw. Can't I just live with you? Please?âÂ
Root smiles, full charm this time. And Shaw jumps when she feels something crawling up the length of her thigh. Luckily the waiter comes with the food, so Shaw has a valid excuse for evicting Root's foot from her crotch.Â
âIndependence.â Shaw reminds her before grabbing the sandwich off of the plate. She's about to take a bite, but pauses midway. An odd feeling had struck her, a feeling like she's being watched and not by a secret system.
Leaned against the wall, slumped in her seat, is Root, staring at Shaw's sandwich with a weird lust in her eyes. If she was hungry, then she should have ordered something. So tough, Shaw thinks, bringing the sandwich to mouth again and goddamnit!
Shaw cuts the fucking thing in half and slides the plate across the table. Root smiles to herself and takes a nibble and then just- chomps down. Shaw can't believe what shes seeing right now.
âThis is the best sandwich I've ever had,â Root says, at least that's what Shaw thinks she says. Root's mouth is so full, and yet, she keeps trying to fill it.Â
âAs a person who's had a lot of sandwiches, I-â
âShut up and eat it, Shaw!â
Without further protest, Shaw takes a bite. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. âOh my fucking god.â It is the best sandwich she's ever had. Why is Root right all the time?
âSo, tomorrow...â Root manages to swallow the rest without choking. âNew day, new list, perhaps a new car even? I heard Harry's got a viper tucked away in cold storage.â
Shaw chews on it. As fun as it was gallivanting around this charming city with Root... she'll have to pass. âSorry, you're on your own for round two. I'm busy.â
âI checked. You're not.â
What is this? Slow season for criminal activity? âI'm taking a personal day.â
âFine,â Root says, dabbing with the napkin before it's surly tossed aside. âI'll be wandering Hell's Kitchen tomorrow if you change your mind.â
âOkay, Root.â Shaw snorts, almost choking on her food. âGive your taser a good charge before you do.â She'll definitely need it for that side of town- if she were actually going.Â
Shaw's not stupid, she recognized the pattern as soon as she saw the list. All the stops they've made so far today were along the 4 train, which lets off near Subway HQ and coincidentally, right by Shaw's apartment.
They step outside the deli and Shaw gives the place a nod as she slips the glasses back on. The sign is in Russian, and unfortunately, none of it involves the ten words she knows. âGoodbye restaurant I don't know the name of.â
âActually,â Root says, glancing up at the sign. âIt think it says sandwich, well, bread meat bread, but you get the picture.âÂ
âHmm.â Shaw shrugs. She's halfway to the car, that better not be stolen, when she notices Root isn't behind her. Doubling back, Shaw finds her standing at the deli's window, staring at a sign that says For Rent â Inquire Within.Â
âŠ
They inquire within.Â
The owner of the deli; a burly, grey bearded and rather abrasive gentleman named Vlad, throws his dirty apron over his shoulder and yells something wild in Russian to the cooks behind the counter.Â
âCome! We go!â he then yells to Root and Shaw, and leads them out and around the building, through several locked doors and up a rickety old freight elevator, all while cursing in his native tongue. And Shaw's sure of this because most of those words he's using, are the same ones she's used to start bar fights overseas.Â
âYou go, I wait,â Vlad says, and shoos them off the elevator.Â
It's was an industrious space converted to a loft by the previous owners. The concrete floors were replaced with dark hard wood for a more domestic feel, but the steel pillars remained. Carved out to one side, the obvious kitchen accustomed with marble counter tops, a range, and a classic style refrigerator. And in the far corner, the porcelain bathroom with the large clawfoot tub, partitioned by a wall of glass blocks.Â
Root turns circles, marveling the expanse of open floor plan. âI have no words, Shaw.âÂ
âI'm shocked,â Shaw replies, but it has nothing to do with this rare real estate gem they've stumbled upon by sheer luck. Root's non-stop motormouth has suddenly run out of fuel and hell has actually frozen over.Â
But in the weird trend of today's events, Shaw checks and double checks everything. That the light switches turn on and the water runs from the faucets. She test the sturdiness of the steel beams and the thickness of the walls. She stomps around in her steel toed boots for weak spots in the floor. In the end, everything seems to be in working order. The radiator is blasting heat, the toilet is flushing, and yes, the refrigerator is also running.Â
The second Shaw mentions roof access, Root's falling over to make a deal.Â
Vlad may be limited in English, but he understands the universal language of money and the giant wad of cash Root suddenly pulls out of her pocket. He shoves a set of keys in her hand and goes off on Russian tangent as he counts the money.
âHe says...â Root pauses to listen. âNo checks, no cards, rent is cash only...â
âHow the fuck do you know that?â
âI did some work for the Russian mob- long story,â Root tells her before she's back to translating. âI'm supposed to put the money in an envelope and slip under his door... on the first of the month, not the second, or... well that doesn't sound very pleasant.â
Shaw's eyes widen some. She tries to ask what the she means by that, but Root shushes her with a raised finger.
âThere is one rule... don't bother me. If you do not bother me, I will not bother you and everything will be... cookies and cream?â
âWhat does that mean?â
âSorry, I'm a bit rusty.â Root tunes back in, nodding profusely at the last part before he shakes her hand and leaves.Â
âWhat did he just say to you?â
Root turns to her. âHe said, My name is Vladimir Baronov Petrovich, and I fix nothing.â
âŠ
A week later...Â
Shaw picks up a bottle of wine on the way to Root's. A house warming gift of sorts, or a present depending on how you look at it, though Shaw prefers it as a celebration of mission completion and good things yet to come.Â
The days of Root living out of satchels and crashing on couches are finally over, and for some reason, Shaw takes comfort in that. It means things are changing, for the better, she believes. Having a safe, permanent place to lay your head, it means something.
Shaw can hear the faint music playing as she lifts the elevator gate. She expects Root sprung for a decent sound system, something to listen to while she cranes her neck over a computer for hours on end. And maybe she found a nice desk and a comfortable chair like Harold's to sit in while she does, Shaw wonders, as she rounds the corner, quietly.Â
Sneaking up on Root is a hit or miss, depending on the Machine's mood. But Shaw hopes she gets to catch Root doing something weird for once, even though she has no idea what that might entail.Â
Root's barefoot, sitting cross legged on the floor with a soldering iron, humming to herself. And Shaw thinks it's actually kind of cute- maybe, at least until she finds a better word for it. Which is never. The feeling becomes short lived, the nameless word is moot when she realizes why Root's sitting on the floor.Â
She has no goddamn furniture.Â
âLove what you haven't done with the place,â Shaw calls out, announcing her presence to Root, who flinches and then smiles bashfully to the wires in her lap. As it turns out, the Machine was in Shaw's favor this evening. It's a rare occurrence to find Root so off guard, with her hair pulled into a loose bun, with little smudges of soot on her shirt and holes in her blue jeans.Â
Her walk is still the same, smug saunter as it always is though. Root lets her hair down as she approaches, on purpose Shaw thinks.Â
âWelcome. May I take your coat?â Root offers, and Shaw does a bit of casing as she slips her arms free of the sleeves.
It was inaccurate to say Root didn't have any furniture; there's a mattress lying in the middle of the floor beside a steel column. Root had thrown some sheets and pillows on top and called it a bed. Next to that, her other Root things. A laptop, a bag, a few articles of clothing and a cell phone playing the music Shaw had heard earlier.Â
âIs that for me?â Root asks, nodding to the bottle of wine in Shaw's hand.Â
âYeah, but uh,â Shaw rubs the back of her neck, glancing again at the great empty space. âI feel like I should have brought a plant or something, or a chair.â
âBusy week,â she says, internally debating where to hang Shaw's jacket, for a moment, until deciding to just throw it on the floor. âHaven't been home much lately-â and then Root laughs, lightly to herself. âIt's strange isn't it?âÂ
âWhat is?â Shaw asks, halfway to the kitchen for a pair of drinking glasses before she realizes, Root probably doesn't have any of those either.Â
âThis place, my place... It is supposed to feel this weird?â
âDon't worry, the charm wears off pretty quick. Eventually, it'll be just another Tuesday night where you store all your things.â Shaw flops down on the edge of the mattress. âCorrection, thing.â
âAwfully presumptuous of you.â Root teases.Â
âAwfully rude of you, not owning a couch.â There are worse problems than not having a proper place to sit. âI'd guess you don't have cork screw either, or is that me being presumptuous again?â
Grinning, Root ambles to the spot next to Shaw on the mattress. âYou'll have to use your imagination, sorry. I didn't think you'd bring anything fancy.â
The label is the only fancy thing about this wine, an Italian sounding word, Shaw thinks it means something like hat. The price tag said twelve, but she got it for six.Â
Shaw flicks open her pocket knife and stabs it into the cork with a twisting motion.Â
Root leans back and lounges on her elbows. âI did buy something yesterday, now that I think about it.â
âWhat?â Shaw asks, straining with the knife and the cork that wont budge.
Root nods. âThat.â and Shaw looks in the direction. Hanging on the opposite pillar is a crudely sketched portrait. Of Shaw.
âUm, where did you get that?â
âFrom the man in the park,â Root replies, like it's supposed to mean something to Shaw. âFun fact, he used to be police sketch artist until he injured his hand in a tragic trout-fisting accident. Anyways, if you pay him twenty dollars, he'll draw anyone you describe.â
Thankfully, Shaw gets the bottle open by then. The horrible taste of it helps her forget she ever heard the words trout-fisting back to back. âHope you like cork in your fancy wine,â Shaw says and passes it on. âMy eyebrows are off, by the way.â
âHmm...â Root cocks her head the side, âI still like it.â She takes a swig from the bottle and grimaces almost instantly.Â
âYou know, you don't have to drink it,â Shaw says, laughing at the sour look on Root's face from the cheap wine. She has to run to the kitchen sink to wash her mouth out, it's so bad.
âWanna see something cool?â Root asks when she returns and Shaw throws her a wary look. The last time Root tried to show her something cool, she ended up with stitches.Â
âDo you have a first aid kit?â
âNo?â
âThen no.â
âJust close your eyes,â Root insists. âPlease..â
âFine.â and Shaw covers her eyes, however, she checks for any sharp objects in Root's hands and in the immediate vicinity first. Patiently, she waits on the bed, listening to Root as she scampers around in her bare feet, for a moment until there's a loud click and the main lights go off.
Shaw opens her eyes... winding up the steel columns and along the rafters high above the bed, Root's hung strings of lights. Of all shapes, sizes and colors, they're arranged in way that makes Shaw feel like she's sitting inside a Christmas tree.Â
âSo this is what you've been doing?â Shaw smirks to herself. The order of Root's priorities are a mystery to her.
âLivens the place up,â Root says, looking up with a kind of awe in her eyes, or maybe it's the light glowing from the red bulbs.Â
Root joins her on the bed again. Their legs hang off the edge, their feet occasionally running into each other. Â
Shaw takes another swig of the wine, biting at the taste. âSo um, does this count?â she asks, and when Root turns to her mixed, she has to awkwardly clarify. âIs this part of that quality the Machine says we don't have enough of?â
Root says nothing, she just grins.
âWhy not?â Shaw goes on the defense. She showed up, she brought the wine, she looked at the pretty lights and they're talking. If that isn't quality time, then what is? âI really think you should reevaluate-â and suddenly, Shaw is rendered speechless by Root, who grabs her face and kisses her.Â
âThat's why,â Root says, giving Shaw a quick peck on the lips before pushing her down on the bed and climbing on top.Â
And Shaw doesn't protest either, when Root starts unbuckling her belt, she's beginning to think this may fall under another made up category in Root's head. Something along the lines of fun time.Â
âBut if your so worried about it, Sameen,â she says, leaning in as she pins Shaw's wrists above her head, âYou can come by tomorrow. I'm going to Ikea.â

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Despite their day jobs (or maybe because of them), Root and Shaw manage to hit all the ânormalâ relationship milestones. In their own way, of course.
-------------------------
LOVE LETTERS
(the way to a girlâs heart is long and winding, especially if itâs her digestive tract)
The postcard sticks out like a sore thumb.
Probably because itâs in-between six hundred kilos of cocaine, John thinks, not bothering to put on gloves as he reaches for the glossy paper. Itâs probably fine: there are fingerprints on everything from the steering wheel to the tiny plastic baggies in the dealersâ coat pockets â they probably wonât need some horribly kitschy postcard with a generic beach background and a WordArt âHavana!â on it for evidence.
Itâs the kind of thing that diplomatically-minded people â people like Finch â would gently suggest exchanging for a different one, maybe one that looks less dated? Slightly less tactful individuals, not to mention names but â okay, Shaw â on the other hand, would probably set it on fire.
John sighs and turns it around to look for an address or maybe a name or any identi â oh God.
The back â if at all possible â is worse: itâs literally covered in those pointy Sâs he vaguely remembers sketching on his notebooks back in middle school. Hundreds of iterations of the same letter, in various sizes, are littered across the surface. It looks like a high school desk; or worse, one of those rappers nowadays with all the facial tattoos.
He tucks it into his jacket pocket, shuddering at the thought of having to choose between paperwork and Shawâs wrath. But thereâs no escaping it, so he trudges down the alley that will seal his fate.
---------------
Back at the subway station, he drops The Abominationâą as he passes by Shaw. It flutters â turns in the air â catches on a breeze that smacks it into the wall â floats lazily down to land just left of her foot. She doesnât even glance at it.
âPick up your trash,â is what he gets instead.
âItâs not trash,â is all John gets out before he remembers that yes, yes it is; it is absolute garbage and why do they even keep picking them up? He motions to an alcove where four other sheets of pointy S-adorned paper â a scrunched-up note, an advertisement flyer, some high schoolerâs art project, a torn bit of newspaper â hang menacingly. âItâs another one of those.â
---------------
Three weeks, seven papers and two rolls of masking tape later, a form begins to take shape.
âItâs a heart,â Harold remarks, and itâs the absolute wrong thing to say, judging by the way Shaw is reaching for the gun on her thigh. âI mean! It⊠is? But who would ââ
âThree guesses, Finch,â Shaw grinds out.
John adds, âAnd the first two donât count.â
---------------
âDonât you think itâs romantic?âÂ
âItâs creepy.â
âBut itâs how everyone in middle school used to get a date!â
âLike that didnât just prove âcreepyâ,â John mutters.
Shaw doesnât pay him any attention, âYouâre taking dating advice from how fourteen year-olds ask each other out? Twenty years ago?!â
âWorked back then,â Root shrugs, mildly offended that her masterpiece isnât being appreciated. Fourteen hundred and six pointy Sâs â the initials of Sameen Shaw â and counting. It looks beautiful up on the subway wall â could use a little more lighting, and the last piece, of course⊠and apparently more masking tape, considering Sameen just ripped the whole thing down the middle.
âThis,â Shaw shakes the offending swathe of paper and launches it onto the subway tracks, âis not how you get someone to go out on a date with you,â she spits out, marching off with John and Harold limping after her.Â
---------------
Thatâs what she says⊠until the last piece arrives as a large stuffed-crust pizza decorated with a pointy S made of pepperoni slices. With Root in full pizza delivery girl getup.
She tips her cap, âHow about now, Sam?â
Shawâs cheeks are bursting, her eyes roving up and down the red uniform. â⊠only if thereâs more pizza involved.â
-------------------------
SLEEPING TOGETHER
(love may not mean letting them walk all over you, but it does mean being a mattress once in a while)
Sameen can barely blink herself awake before she hears the stressed, âDonât move, Miss Shaw,â from six feet to her left.
âFinch, wha-â
âDonât. Move.â
Something kicks into overdrive. Sheâs been in this situation before. Given, only a handful of times, and sheâd been lucky to have expert bomb defusers near her the first two and Cole the last time around, but sheâs survived stepping on pressure plates and triggering trip wires â nowâs no different.
Except it is. A cursory glance around shows her sheâs still in the subway, there is no call to panic stations, and nobody is ordering her to stand on the edge of her foot for the foreseeable future â probably because sheâs lying down.
Until she sees who is next to her in the makeshift bed. And groans. Because of course sheâs here now, after weeks of radio silence and general wondering where the hell the other woman had pissed off to next.
Sameen doesnât realise it now â wonât realise it until itâs much, much too late â but somehow, Root is everywhere: hidden amongst the computer junk and too-big clothes flung left, right and centre across their â the, not their â apartment, collected as notes and pictures in-between the pages her copy of RubĂĄiyĂĄt of Omar KhayyĂĄm⊠and possibly in whatever remains of her heart.
And now sheâs also tucked into Shawâs side, clutching a fistful of tank top and drooling on have-seen-better-days blue sheets. Also hogging all the blankets.
âReally, Finch?â
âShh sh sh sh shhhh!!!!!â he motions wildly with his arms and touches a finger to his mouth in what she assumes is supposed to be a placating gesture. Shaw flops down none too gently, but it does the trick, and he continues, âMiss Groves returned yesterday evening after a run-in with some of Samaritanâs agents â her friends, Mister Casey and Mister Daizo â were able to apprehend them before they could do any real damage⊠other than that to themselves.â He turns a little green at the thought of Samaritanâs lunatics offing themselves, but composes himself. âSheâs busy sleeping off whatever drug cocktail they injected her with, although judging by her recent sleep patterns, it might be a while before she wakes up.â
Shaw only raises an eyebrow.
Finch swallows, clears his throat. âMiss Groves needs this sleep, Miss Shaw, so if you could find it within yourself to stay still for a few more hoursâŠâ his gaze drifts off to the mess of brown curls spread across the pillows, â⊠it would be much appreciated.â
Shaw rolls her eyes, tries to shift so Root is lying less on her arm and more on her own. It doesnât work. Not exactly the way she planned on spending her Thursday morning, but âÂ
âWhat about MisterâŠâ Food. Something about food. Pasta? Couscous? â⊠our current target?â
âAh, yes! As luck would have it, Mister Reese has already apprehended Mister Rice, the gentleman you were following yesterday, and we havenât received another number yet.â
The markâs name has Shawâs stomach growling; a corner of Finchâs mouth ticks up.
âIs there anything I can get you that could help during these⊠trying times?â he asks, doing his best not to piss Shaw off any more, but still not willing to quite give up on the teasing tone.
âBurrito⊠s. And Bear.â She glances at the cocoon Root has managed to tangle herself up into. â⊠and another blanket.â
âRight away, Miss Shaw,â he motions for Bear to come, asks him to zit, Bear! Mooie hond! En ga maar slapen â blif hier, grabs his hat and the last bedspread on the table, offers it to the angry assassin before taking his leave.
Harold pretends not to notice Sameen tucking the blankets more securely around Root as he closes the door behind him.
-------------------------
MEETING THE PARENTS
(a mother always knows)
âSameen?â Root startles, and instantly knows sheâs screwed up.
The woman in front of her stands ramrod still, using oh-so familiar eyes to rove over her leather jacket and the laptop in her free hand and the way she shifts to adjust her falling bra strap. They linger on the visible portion of her cochlear implant (Root wants to curl her fingers up to her ear and push her hair back over the offending instrument, but sheâs terrified that a single move will send the lady running, and she canât have that â not yet) before meeting her eyes; beautiful, but so, so guarded.
The accent is obvious, and the grammar isnât perfect, but the words shake something deep in her core anyway, âI am sorry, but afraid I am not my daughter.â
And Root knows that â because Shaw is three thousand miles away, pulling herself through an air vent while shouting profanities loudly enough that she might as well be right next to her; Rootâs arm, along with the phone, falls to her side, the still-connected call forgotten.
Itâs like looking twenty years into the future, wondering if sheâll ever get the opportunity to see the real thing. Nothing and no-one is safe, as the hundreds of scars between them prove time and time again, but right now, sheâs looking into an older womanâs eyes and finds some part of Sameen staring right back.
Until she isnât. The tinny sound of Sameenâs voice yelling âRoot! Where the fuck did you go? Oi, Root!â forces those eyes to the phone in Rootâs hand, and she shouldnât be able to see the screen lighting up with Sam scrawled all over it, but for whatever reason, sheâs smiling anyway. Itâs almost like she knows âÂ
A mother always knows, Sam, Root hears her own mother say to a girl who no longer exists.
Brown eyes lift back up, twinkling in amusement. âShe has always had terrible potty mouth, that one.â The woman turns to leave, but gives Root a once-over, calculating, appraising. Thereâs a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. âTake good care of her, Miss Root,â she murmurs, and then sheâs gone as quickly as she appeared.Â
Four minutes and fifty-three seconds too late, a young woman standing just outside of Houstonâs city centre whispers, âYes, Mrs Shaw,â to no-one but herself.
-------------------------
HAVING CHILDREN
(or, well, you know; dealing with the one that actually matters)
âYou know, when you said that youâd be âcoming around sometime this weekâ, I kind of expected it to be for a âhavenât seen you in three years; howâve you been?â reason rather than a âone of your classmates is next in line to be head of the Bartonelli crime syndicate but their half-whatever wants them dead so here I am to save the dayâ reason.â
Shaw blinks at Gen over the rim of her milkshake. Wonders whom she has to sleep with around here to have her drink Irished up so she doesnât need to have this conversation. Then she remembers that sheâs in a McDonalds and that alcohol consumption is frowned upon at eleven in the morning and that Root is the Machine-only-knows-where, so there goes that plan.
Gen doesnât give up, âWhereâre John and Mr Finch?â
âUnavailable.â
âSo why are you here?â
âLovely question.â She slurps at the milkshake
Gen leans to the left, trying to get a glimpse of whatever is down the aisle. Her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline at whatever she sees, âWhyâs Miss Davenport here?â
âWho?â
âDee eye-thea teasha,â Gen supplies through a mouthful of burger. Some swallowing later, she repeats, âThe IT teacher. Well, one of them. Sheâs new â all the boys and even some of the girls are madly in love with her because sheâs got gorgeous brown hair and wears really tight jeans.â She gnaws on her lip and contemplates her burger before continuing, âAnd if rumours are to be believed, she hacked her way into the county test score database and gave everybody forty-two percent.â
âShe sounds familiar.â
âSheâs also walking towards us.â
Shaw turns around just as someone â Miss Davenport? â appears at her shoulder and bends down to push a straw into whatâs left of her melting milkshake. A manicured hand wraps around the glass, displacing the condensation, and Shaw follows it to a pale arm to the sleeve of a black blouse to â
âHi, Sameen,â Root hums, and presses a kiss to Shawâs cheek.
---------------
âArenât you going to introduce us, Sam?â
Root looks like butter wouldnât melt in her mouth. Shaw wants a drink with an alcohol content of at least 40 percent. Gen is⊠still gaping.
âShut your trap â the flies are coming in.â
She does â and promptly bites her tongue. Sameen sighs and pushes her now more milk than shake in Genâs direction; she moves to begin picking at her now-lukewarm fries, but has to swat away a hand before she can pull the box closer, away from the fry-snatcher (more like try-snatcher) slouching in the booth opposite with her too-tight jeans and gorgeous hair. Shaw would throw a chip at it to ruin in, but the idea of wasted food makes her decide to pop it in her mouth instead.
Rootâs still looking at her expectantly, saccharine smile never wavering.
Thereâs a huge chunk of burger in her mouth, so Shaw just nods her head in Genâs direction, âDjenn,â before kicking the hacker under the table, introducing her as, âWoot.â She swallows and glares, picking at her teeth. âDonât discuss. Some of us are still eating.â
They donât. They start talking about her instead.
Which is infinitely worse.
---------------
âWhy Regina Bartonelli, anyway?â huffs Gen as she trudges up the stairs to her dormitory, playing with her keys to find the right one.
âWhy not Regina Bartonelli?â Root counters, smirking, like she knows where this is going. Shaw doesnât, but she motions at a door, imploring the girl between them to unlock it so she can enjoy the scotch stashed in one of Finchâs computer tower skeletons.
Gen has to think about that. âI⊠she⊠it always seems like sheâs at the centre of everything. Nicest art project, so everyone crowds around. Her house is apparently so huge itâs bigger than the school!â She tugs the door open. âAnd, well. Sheâs pretty much the prettiest girl in our gradeâŠâ
Ah.
âAnd youâve noticed, have you?â Shaw teases. Gen â outraged and burning red to her ears â slams the door in their faces.Â
Root swoons dramatically before throwing herself into Shawâs arms, crocodile tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. âOh!â she sniffs less-than-delicately, âthey grow up so fast, donât they?â and Sameen bursts out laughing.
-------------------------
MEETING THE PARENTS (REPRISE)
(just because the dead canât hear you, doesnât mean you didnât say anything)
âYour daughterâs in love with a sociopath,â Shaw greets the headstone in front of her, and wonders what in seven hells sheâs doing.
Although, to be fair, it isnât like she can have this conversation with anyone else.
Fusco would offer her a confused nod, a pat on the back, and a platitude heâd remembered from whatever book heâs currently skimming over. And maybe a donut he still has left from lunch. Finch would clap his hands over his ears two words into the first sentence. The Machine would use anything she said as information for the next sorry sucker that needs advice. Zoe would tell her to put a ring on it.
That doesnât really leave anyone. Except maybe John.
Wonderboy is interested, and sympathetic, but she doesnât know how to explain to someone who has feelings that sheâs not doing whatever-this-is with Root because of some weird outpouring of hormones and neurotransmitters and â you know what, she totally is. Why isnât she having this conversation with John?
Sheâs halfway into getting up before she realises she drove two hundred miles out of her way to have this not-a-discussion with a dead woman. Back to squatting. Might as well have the talk now.
The wind comes up, tugging at her hair and clothes, throwing dust in the air. Even as she sits here, at the edge of the potterâs field on the outskirts of Bishop, Shaw doesnât think she could ever understand how forlorn Root must have felt in this town.
Mrs Groves doesnât say anything. Her name stares back up at Shaw from the small, grey headstone, and in that moment, means absolutely nothing. But this does:
âAnd, wellâŠ,â Sameen pauses, thinks of the words. âI⊠I think that, if â if I could love anyone⊠itâd be her.â
-------------------------
BEING A FAMILY
(this is love â in finale)
âExcellent food you have here,â Sameen comments before heartily biting into the pepper steak sheâd snaffled from the pan. âReally top-notch. Almost like alcohol at parties without adult supervision.â
âPlease donât chew with your mouth full, Miss Shaw,â Harold reprimands reflexively as he puts down the second bowl of roast potatoes, smiling despite himself.
âOh, never mind, mom is here,â she teases, moving to scoop another helping of spuds on her plate before John can get at them.Â
Theyâre supposed to be celebrating Christmas, because while we may not have a normal lifestyle, we shouldnât shun the incorporation of at least some normalcy into our lives, some part of Finchâs speech creeps unbidden into her thoughts; even though Shaw doesnât do Christmas, she does do food and alcohol and good company on the rare occasion such as this one, and it feels warm, comfortable, like home.
Thereâs some clinking in the background that draws her back to the present, where she hears, â⊠so if I may make a toast ââ Harold invites them all to do as he does, lifts his glass⊠and says nothing. Despite his ten-minute speech yesterday about embracing the holiday spirit and ensuring we do not lose our moral fibre, heâs completely at a loss for words. Quiet tears begin slipping down his cheeks.
âHear, hear,â John murmurs, pulling Harold back into his seat. She lifts her glass and tips it in the general direction of the table, turns to Root to do the same. But Root isnât there.
Well, she is. But not really. Sheâs lost in the Christmas lights and cheer and atmosphere, looking around as if to capture it all, as if it will all be gone tomorrow. In one go-around, they catch each otherâs eye: Root smiles shyly, and Shaw finds herself gazing directly at the insecure twelve year-old girl thatâs usually simmering beneath the surface. Her eyes are almost glazed over in wonder at the mess of tinsel and fairy lights and assorted baubles that Bear dragged around the subway earlier this morning. If her mother ever had to see this place, sheâd probably have a cadenza.Â
But right now: âItâs Christmas, Sameen,â she whispers, fingers grasping at Shawâs hoodie as if to anchor herself back to the ground.
To help, Sameen shifts closer, presses her leg against Rootâs thigh, and tucks their heads together conspiratorially. The now less-full glass is held up, daring Root to bring hers closer, to make sure this is real.Â
âHereâs to us,â she grins, and clinks their glasses together.
Shoot Secret Santa by @hoodieknight!
Let It Snow
Shoot Secret Santa by @spicycheeser!
*_*_*_*_*
The whole situation feels really weird and the fact that she agreed to it means⊠well it doesnât matter now, because theyâre already here.
She pushes open the door to the cabin, knocking the excess snow off her boots before heading inside.
âShe says a light switch  on the right,â Root says, entering just behind her and dusting the snow off the shoulders of her coat.
Shaw slides a hand along the wall until she finds the switch. The lights flicker on and they get their first look at the place theyâll be spending the next four days.
The living room is open, all high ceilings and exposed wooden beams, everything youâd expect from a âluxury ski lodgeâ. Â To their left is a fireplace. A couch and armchair sit around it, with a soft looking rug and coffee table between. Bookcases and a few paintings line the walls. The kitchen is open to the living room, only separated by a breakfast bar, and thereâs a staircase to the second floor loft that winds up and around (to the bedroom, Shaw assumes).
Slipping off her boots, Shaw leaves her duffle bag by the door. Padding to the kitchen, she begins rummaging and finds both fridge and cupboards to be fully stocked. Recently too, if the expiration dates are accurate.
âShe says thereâs a freezer in the basement with extra food as well,â Root says, leaning over the breakfast bar. âThereâs sports equipment down there. Skis, snowshoes, that sort of thing.â
Shaw grabs a banana from the bowl of fruit, peeling it down. âLooks like Robot Overlord thought of everything.â She takes a bite, enjoying the minut flinch of annoyance Root makes at the nickname.
âEven if this wasnât her idea, She likes to make sure weâre taken care of.â
Shaw rolls her eyes, takes another big bite of fruit so she doesnât have to respond to that. Itâs true though. However serious or not Shawâs comment about going on vacation together was, it was Shawâs idea. And now here they are, fully stocked cabin in the middle of nowhere siberia, four days to kill until their job in Moscow comes up.
âIâm going to take my bag upstairs and unpack,â Root clicks the âkâ at extra hard and attempts a wink before sliding away.
With reluctant sigh Shaw finishes her banana, tossing it before heading back to grab her bag as well. Ascending the staircase she follows the thin banister around to the one and only door and heads inside.
The loft bedroom is... fair-sized. She might be ill or something because âcozyâ was honestly the first adjective that came to mind. Thereâs a dresser on each side of the room, a small bookcase, and a door that probably leads to a bathroom. Most of the room however is taken up by the enormous bed and now, as Shaw stands at the foot of it, sheâs struck by just how little thinking she did about this whole vacation thing. What it might entail, for example. Not a vacation in general but a vacation with someone. With Root. Itâs a thought exercise made infinitely harder to since sheâs not exactly sure how to define what being âwith Rootâ means either.
Theyâve fucked (once) and kissed (twice) and spent plenty of time together flirting and shooting at people. All of that happened on the job though so downtime like this is completely undefined. Shawââs not sure what Root expects and not what sure what she wants from Root either.
Tossing her duffle in the corner, Shaw flops back onto the bed. Thereâs a skylight above, currently featuring a perfect square of grey-blue winter sky. She feels the bed dip beside her and hears Root release and over exaggerated sigh.
âWhat are we supposed to do now?â Shaw wonders outloud.
âI can think of several things,â Root hums, teasing tone not o be misinterpreted. âBut vacation is about doing what you want to do.â
Shaw sits with that for a fw long minutes. Sheâs still not sure what to make of it, even when she feels Root roll off the bed and head towards the door.
âI have a project I want to work on,â she says by way of exiting, and Shaw is alone once more.
Propping herself up on her elbows, Shaw looks out the small window. Thereâs a fresh layer of snow out there and more forecasted for the evening as well.
Four days of this, Shaw thinks, wondering what on earth possessed her to even entertain the idea, much less suggest it. She conjures up ideas of what ânormalâ people do on a snowy vacation and finds herself with a barrage of media stock images that involve people snuggling together for various activities.
Suddenly the idea of staying inside makes her itch.
Shaw heads downstairs. Root is on the couch, curled up under a blanket, laptop in lap. âLeave it to you to manage to find a WiFi signal in the middle of the woods.â
âShe and I are well practiced at creating our own hotspot,â Root hums.
âEw, okay, I donât wanna know,â Shaw says, waving hand and making her way towards the basement.
Descending the stairs, sheâs actually surprised by what she finds. The basement is tidy, well organized, and labled. It reminding Shaw of something sheâd expect to find in White Suburbia rather than the frozen tundra. She heads for the sports equipment mounted and displayed towards the back and shuffs on a pair of snow pants (surprisingly just her size). She grabs the cross country skis, having watched enough Winter Olympics to know that if she wants a good burn thatâs a good bet, and heads back upstairs.
Rootâs still staring at the computer and Shaw can tell from the faraway look that the Machine must be talking to her. Fingers flying across the keys and Shaw wonders who is dictating to whom. Though, remembering Rootâs prior innuendo ,maybe sheâd rather not know.
Shaw walks behind the couch and pulls on her jacket. Peeking over Rootâs shoulder she sees lines of code growing of across the screen. Itâs a language Shaw has no desire to learn, and a lifestyle she has no interest in adopting. The contrast between her and Root sits odd in her stomach and propels her out the door even quicker.
Outside, the sky is still bright grey and sheâs thankful she remembered to bring sunglasses for  the glare off the snow. Strapping into the skis it takes a few minutes to figure out how to get moving, but itâs not long before sheâs gliding along at a good clip.
The trail near the cabin excellent, challenging. A good rhythm going now, she feels confident enough to push a little harder. She loses herself in it, letting concerns and thoughts from before fall away and shifting attention inward to the way her quads burn or the bite of the cold air at her lungs. The world around her is crisp and quiet, the only sounds are the swishing of her skis and the hiss of her breath. Every once in awhile sheâll stop and take in the serene woods. Watch the way the light glints off iced branches, or examine some animal tracks she crosses. She spends a few hours like that and by the time she gets back, the waning light has taken on a golden hue.
Back inside, Shaw is almost thankful not to find Root where she left her. Instead, sheâs in the kitchen, starting at the open cupboards in thought.
âProblem?â Shaw asks, grabbing a beer from the fridge.
âJust reviewing dinner options. Decisions, decisions.â
Shaw pops the top off the beer with her belt buckle, taking a long swig. âKinda assumed Iâd be doing the cooking, you know, considering.â
âConsidering?â
âConsidering half the time I have to remind you to eat,â Shaw huffs, taking another sip. âFoodâs not really your thing.â
Root looks at her and it feels heavy somehow. She tries not to squirm under it, changes the subject. âLook, donât blow a microchip- let me shower and Iâll make something,â she shrugs like itâs nothing, even though Root is still looking like it's anything but.
Shaw moves towards the door, before Rootâs voice catches up with her, âNeed any company?â
The tone is light, the weigh from before evaporated. âI think I can handle it,â Shaw deadpans back.
Back upstairs, she takes a few extra minutes in the shower, letting the hot water defrost the cold ache from her bones. After, she finds that Root seems to have taken it upon herself to unpack their bags. All their clothes are neatly folded in the dresser to the left of the bed. Shawâs extra ammo clips, gas mask, and other gear is organized in her duffle bag, tucked under the bed.
Itâs annoying in its efficiency, annoying because itâs exactly how Shaw would have done it. Totally unnecessary. Could have done this myself, Shaw thinks. Helping herself to her favorite pair of worn USMC sweats and a hoodie, she pads back downstairs.
âYou look cozy,â Root says. Sheâs kneeling near the fireplace depositing another log on an already roaring fire.
âShe help you with that too?â Shaw asks.
âFire setting happens to be one of my skills actually.â
âSomehow not surprised,â Shaw states and heads to the kitchen.
Cooking has always been luxury when she had the time to indulge, so sheâs happy to seize the opportunity. The cabinets are still open from Rootâs rummaging and Shaw browses those and the fridge before settling on a meal. Thereâs a whole raw chicken which she helps herself to, spending a few minutes of collecting seasonings and other essentials before setting to work. She dresses it the way she remembers her mother doing years ago and makes sure to grab and chop an assortment of veggies to lay underneath the roasting bird too.
Root could use the frigginâ nutrients, she thinks idly.
Shoving the whole thing in the oven, she sets a timer before heading back to the living room. Root is back on the couch, feet on the coffee table and afghan blanket wrapped around her legs like a mermaid tail. They have about an hour before dinner so Shaw makes her way to the bookshelves. Perusing the titles, she canât help sneaking quick glances back at Root. The woman is typing away oblivious, brow furrowed in concentration. Itâs a sight Shaw finds to be a weird comfort normally, but here it makes her slightly unnerved. Not because of the action, but because it leaves Shaw to her own devices. Itâs the âwhatâs nextâ anticipation thatâs bothered Shaw since they got here, and it seems like sheâs the only one.
Eventually she selects a book, a popular title she recognizes from a few years ago, and is then faced another choice: Where to sit. The armchair, the other end of the couch? Rootâs words about Shaw doing whatever she wants on vacation mock her and it pisses her off enough she bypasses the couch and chair, opting to flop down on the rug in front of the fireplace.
Root doesnât look up from her typing but states, âThe bear skin rug was the ownerâs Great-Great Grandfatherâs. He killed the bear himself and fed his family for 6 months off the meat. Itâs a family heirloom and the owner apparently takes a eat deal of pride in it.â
âSo sex on the rug is out?â she jokes, enjoying the way Rootâs glitches excitedly. Shaw doesnât bother waiting for a verbal response, simply rolls over, faces the fire, and cracks open the book.
Time flies after that. The book is good, but the wafting smell of roasting chicken and subsequent stomach grumbling buoys her to the present. Shaw portions dinner for them, Root watching ruefully as she very purposefully places roasted vegetables both plates. They eat at the small wooden table in the breakfast nook. Root takes her time, cutting her entire meal into tiny pieces before even taking a bite. Shaw has more of an eat-as-you-go style, which is why she's half done by the time Root finishes cutting. Shaw tries to slow her pace.
Companionable silence is one of her favorite things about Root. The quiet never feels pressured or uncomfortable. Even in the midst of this odd situation, it still feels right. They finish up and before Shaw can say anything, Root clears dishes. She returns to the table with a tumbler of whisky for Shaw glass of water for herself.
âShe says I need to drink more waterâ Root says.
âSheâs not wrong ,â Shaw chuckles, taking a sip of her own drink. âBut She doesnât mind if Iâm dehydrated?â
Root smiles over the lip of her glass. âShe thought you might appreciate a good buzz at the moment.â
They sip quietly, watching the snow starts to fall through the window.
âThe ownerâs hunting gear is in the basement as well. If you're wondering what you can do for tomorrow.â
Shaw was, in fact, wondering that. âWhat kind of gun?â
âCompound bow, actually.â Root says. âGame fowl season is in full swing right now.â
âSounds fun.â
What about tonight? lingers heavily after but Root smiles lightly ,diffusing it. âI have a few more things Iâd like to work on. Unless you have something in mind for us for dessert?â
Shaw makes a âafter you/donât let me stop youâ motion with her arm towards the couch like and Root heads back to her spot from before. Shaw stays, finishes her drink in her own time, but eventually returns to her spot on the rug as well.
Itâs late when she finally lays the book down, the fire fizzled out to its final embers. Now the blue light of the computer screen is the only illumination and the creepy way it lights Rootâs face, the strung out tiredness there, brings to mind an entirely different type of snowed-in scenario. The Stephen King kind.
All work and no play, Shaw thinks. Standing, she moving behind the couch and touches Rootâs shoulder. âShe going to remind you to take a break any time soon?â
âShe avoids redirecting me when unnecessary. Doing so when youâre around seems redundant.â
âFine. Then this is me telling me you look like shit. Be done for the night.â
Root smiles sleepily, closing the laptop and placing it beside her. âAs you wish.â
Shaw ignores the reference and heads for the bedroom. She changes, brushes her teeth, and passes Root on the stairs coming up as she heads down to find a glass of water. By the time she returns to the bedroom, Root has changed into her monogrammed PJâs and bunny slippers and is sitting on edge of the bed, odd expression on her face as she stares at her phone.
Shaw pauses in the doorway, not sure what she wants to do or what sheâs going to do (two different things).
They've always slept separately in the past. She could still sleep downstairs but thatâd be stupid when the bed up here is big enfor three or four people. She watches Root discard her phone, giving Shaw a open, content look before shutting off her bedside light.
It was neither invitation nor declaration. Another thing Shaw likes about Root- thereâs never any pressure. Â Doesnât make this any less confusing.
Shaw makes her way over to the bed despite the continued indecision, and slides under the covers. When she rolls over, sheâs facing Root who blinks back at her in the dark.
Fuck it, Shaw thinks. âWhat is this?â
âItâs call ârestâ, I think.â
âYou know what I mean. This. You. Me. â Shaw pauses âHer too I suppose- itâs a package deal right?â
Root beams at that, âVery much so.â
âSo yeah, what is this?â
âWhat do you want it to be?â
âCan you just answer my question. I asked you first.â
Root shrugs, nuzzling her head further into her pillow. âI havenât thought much about it.â
âBullshit,â Shaw bites. âYou always have a plan.â
âShe always has a plan. IâŠâ Root trails off. Shaw can tell itâs Root thinking rather than listening, so she waits.
âI enjoy you Sameen,â she says, quietly. âWhatever that is, day to day.â
âAnd Her?â Shaw asks, referring to the Machine. âShe just along for the ride?â
âMmm, on the contrary, she has always been quite invested in us as a pair.â Root smiles small, like itâs an inside joke. âShe likes you too.â
âThat isâŠâ Shaw searches, but comes up with nothing. âWhatever. Itâs fine, I guess.â
âGlad to hear it.â
Shaw rolls onto her back looks up at the skylight. Stars wink above, dots of bright in crisp, dark blue.
âIâm not good at this,â Shaw starts. Root doesnât reply but Shaw doesnât have to turn to know the womanâs attention is tuned in. âNot sure how itâs supposed to go.â
âOn the contrary, youâre quite good at it. You make sure I eat, sleep-â
âSo does the omnipotent FitBit in your ear,â Shaw grumbles.
âYou talk to me, and listen,â Root continues. âAnd if I'm totally honest you're the first person, maybe in my whole life, who has thought about me. About my safety. About my health.â Root says it plainly, as though theyâre discussing the weather.
Thereâs a pressure in Shawâs chest at the words, like the air is compressing around her slowly, the weight of it clenching under her ribs. Something demanding attention, something stirring.
âIt doesnât have to be like on TV,â Root offers. âOr like what the rest of them, any of them have. Because we're not like the rest of them, are we?â
Shaw snorts, âFuck no.â
âSo forget them. Forget âshouldâ and âsupposed toâ.â Root adds, propping herself up on an elbow. âWhat you're not good at isnât applicable. Itâs a language you don't ever have to learn. Not with me.â
The pressure reaches combustion and that something thatâs been building, building all day and even before, finally explodes. Without thought, Shaw pounces on top of Root, pinning her to the mattress.
Only anger usually moves her like this, but the sharp and familiar satisfaction that usually follow a snap is missing. There is relief, as she looks down at the other woman whose hips she was straddling, but sheâs not sure where to go from here.
Root, by contrast, doesnât seem unsure. Doesnât seem surprised either. She simply looks back up at Shaw, and smiles knowingly. âDitto.â
Shaw rolls her eyes, and dismounts, shuffling to her side of the bed once more, and letting the warm afterbuzz of that stirring thing, settle in her gut.
âKeep your freezing feet to yourselfâ Shaw says without malice, as she snuffles down further into the covers. âAnd tell Rosie the Robot to wake us up for 5am. I wanna shoot some stuff, bright and early.â
âMmm, goodnight Sameen,â Root contently from the dark.
Itâs odd, to have someone know her better than she know herself sometimes. To have someone who understands, who seems to hear the whispers within her like they were as clear as day. Maybe Root can help her hear them a little better too. Maybe together they can have their own language.
Shaw chuckles, into her pillow despite herself. The whole thing is so weird. So unexpected.
Inconceivable, she thinks as she drifts off. She falls asleep smirking at the reference and how ridiculous and maybe cool being âwithâ some can actually turn out to be.
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