#shootweekend

...

The phone rings in the middle of the street, and you understand the feelingof dull comfort in your chest as you approach. You pull Bear’s leash tighter sohe follows, and with a single, sharp inhale, you answer.

The usual dial-tone-like beep answers, but after, there is silence. Longsilence, and just when you are about to hang up, you hear her voice.

“Sameen,” she teases, almost singsong over your name. “You hadn’t given upon me, had you?”

There is both a life and a fatigue to her words. You don’t know how youknow, but you know. This is...this is her. You are about to speak when shecontinues.

“We made it,” she murmurs. “Go home for me.”

You hang up, and you cannot contain the grin that spreads across your face.As you turn, you meet the closest camera with your eye. You don’t know if She’swatching, but you owe her more than your life will ever amount to, and you nodonce at Her before continuing down the street as just another face in a crowd.

…

You walk slowly into the dusty subway. It feels empty, with the subway cartstill missing and no one around to make noise. It is an echo in your history.

There is something new, however. In the corner by the phone is an old taperecorder plugged into what looks like a miniature version of what had been inthe subway car. In front of it all is a single monitor on a desk.

Carefully, you approach, inspecting the screen.

It is black except for a single, blinking cursor.

When you step closer, it seems to awaken.

Are you admin?

A few new windows pop open. You blink at the lines of code scrolling in thebackground. If you’re supposed to type something into that thing, you’rescrewed. So screwed.

You try a small nod. “One of them.”

A camera view pops up, and you are startled to see yourself. You haven’tlooked in a mirror in a while.

A yellow box forms around your face, a small “Admin” label at the bottomcorner of it.

Who is other admin?

You feel her name catch in your mouth, and you clear your throat beforespeaking. “Find Root.”

The cursor blinks a few times without response.

…Last name?

You shake your head. “Search archives for Root.”

It pulls up a picture of tree roots.

“A person, you idiot.”

After a few second delay, dozens of pictures of sports fans flood thescreen. You narrow your eyes at it, confused until it hits you so hard youphysically recoil at the word play. It’s people rooting for a team. You groan and roll your eyes. Your firstinstinct is to whack it, but you redirect the punch into the desk, rattling allthe technology on it.

“Need a hand?”

Your heart jumps, and immediately you spin around. There she is. Your ghostbrought back. She certainly looks worse for wear. She is bruised and herclothes are not her own, too big around her shoulders and her waist, baggy legsand dirty shoes. Even so, her teasing smile is as vivacious as ever. Sheglances at her right arm tied up in a sling like a punchline.

“I can only give you one,” she jokes.

Her smile is warm.

And all those thoughts, those words you’d regretted not saying to her comeback, swirling around loud and desperate in your head. Because this was yourmoment. You try to pick the right one, the perfect one, so of course what comesout of your mouth is less than desirable.

“Root.”

That was it.

Sameen Shaw, smooth international super spy, and all you could say was hername.

Nice.

“Hi beautiful,” she murmurs as she walks over, and for a moment you cannottell who she is speaking to, you or the Machine. She strolls closer still,winking casually at you before turning fully toward the Machine, brushing herfingers along the top of the monitor before she sits gingerly. “Can you hearme?”

Your feet are stuck in place; you cannot move your gaze from her profile asshe smiles that stupid sultry smile into the camera.

Yes.

“Good.” She says it encouragingly. “Run your debrief protocol, please.”

Code scrolls down the screen, and you are so so glad she is there. You aren’t quite sure what you’d have donewithout her.

When its loading bar gets to about 60%, a black and yellow box appearsaround her face, and her smile could light a room.

“There’s my girl.”

…

You thought maybe Root would have trouble transitioning, from follower tocreator, but she steps seamlessly between the two. She somehow has no quarrelviewing the Machine as both her child and her God.

You, on the other hand, are struggling with a lot of things.

First, you are struggling to keep up with the steady stream of numberspounding the two of you. With Root sidelined, you have to do twice the runningaround with half the intel to go off of. The Machine is learning, but She isn’tat full capacity yet. Root bought herself a one handed keyboard to at leasthelp with the delays of her information relay, but every second countedsometimes.

Second, you are struggling to maneuver an already complicated relationship with Root, while also continuouslybeing bombarded with jobs. The lack of free time has its perks, you won’t lie.It fills the void in your mind that likes to wander, that likes to question thepast, that likes to remember.

But the down side is that you have no time to talk to Root about anything.About you and her. You always get home at the end of the night unsure whetheror not you should crawl into her bed or yours.

She does her usual flirting. She touches your arm or face or leg whenevershe can. She’s even kissed the side of your head in passing as she walks to goto sleep.

What you are not sure of is if you’re supposed to reciprocate all thosethings now.

That is not to say that she is not having her difficulties, too. She definitelyis. The biggest thing being her staggering feelings of inadequacy. She isfeeble and she knows it. And not just her arm. She is physically tired, herbody fighting off infections and working hard to repair all of her damage.

She stays in the subway for horribly long amounts of time. She goesstir-crazy. She starts crafting atone point she is so desperate for somethingto do.

You aren’t complaining, though; you just feel bad for her. Having her inyour ear all the time is comforting. A constant in your otherwise ridiculouslyunpredictable life.

Honestly, she reminds you of Harold, holed up at computers all day, hackingfor information. She thinks the same thing, but neither of you speak the wordsout loud. That would be admitting Harold ever existed. That would be admitting everythinghappened.

…

You work hard to keep focused on reality. What you know is real. You playback memories in every lull of the day, waiting in a car for a number, walkingdown the street. It keeps you sane because you still don’t…trust the world. Andyou only kind of trust yourself, butit’s the best you’ve got.

Root gets used to your issues. At first she is surprised, but she falls intoa steady rhythm of watching and waiting.

Any little thing sets you off. Every little detail that feels fake has youinstantly on edge, waiting to see if Samaritan will screw up again, give youanother sign that this world isn’t the real one.

Is the color of those bricks the same? At what angle was that lamp tilted?Did it get Root’s gait correct or has she always walked that way?

The questions buzz in your head so often you sometimes forget they aren’tnormal. Until you see something wrong. And then they scream louder.

“The keys,” you shout, handsflying to your neck to feel your skin. (doesit feel real?) “They were on thebook, not next to it.”

Instantly she is there, cupping your face even as you back away unsteadily.

“Sweetie,” she murmurs gently, trying to sound condescending. “They’re justkeys.”

You point, anger swirling up your chest. “They weren’t there, I know it.”

“I know,” she breathes with an assuring nod. “But I might have bumped them,okay? Bear might have knocked into the table. But I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

You narrow your eyes at them over her shoulder.

“Look at me,” she commands. Her voice is calm and even and you cannot helpbut flit your gaze to her unwavering eyes.

“They are just keys. They are not a tear in reality.”

Your heart beats faster and the room feels smaller and smaller, but you keepyour eyes on hers, and they do not move. They do not lie.

But what if she’s fake too? Wouldn’t she want you to believe everything wasokay so you wouldn’t run?

You take a deep breath. She looks so earnest and her hand feels so softagainst your cheek. You slide your hand up from your neck overtop of hers. Shesmiles and opens her fingers to allow yours to fit between.

“It’s just a shape,” you say flatly.

Her eyes light up, and she exhales a small laugh. “Yeah. Just a shape.”

You inhale deeply, exhaling slowly, and it feels right. It feels realenough.

“Not like an arrow though, huh?” you flirt with a small smirk, an air ofteasing in your voice.

She blinks, surprised, and immediately she flushes. You can even feel herhand against your cheek getting hot. At least before she pulls it away. “Wheredid you hear that?”

Your mouth opens and you grin wider, flashing teeth and smugness. “YourMachine didn’t tell you what she said to me, huh?”

She swallows thickly. “No. I was a little…unconscious, Sameen.”

You shrug, still smirking. “It doesn’t matter, though, right? Just noise inthe system.”

She blinks again, flustered enough that she has no smart remark to make, andyou brush past her feeling triumphant and, although you hate to admit it,almost happy.

She does have a weakness.

…

The day she takes her sling off is a day of relief and celebration. It isn’tthe answer to your problems, not by a longshot. She can’t exactly use her arm yet, her muscle massdecreased exponentially and bone still weak, but it’s a start. It’s a step inthe healing process.

She begs for the Machine to give her Godmode access, and she is denied overand over. The Machine will not say why, though. She just calls the pay phoneand they end up having a very long, very circularargument until Root hangs up, defeated.

She works out every day. Stretching and lifting weights, running as often asshe can. As far as you can tell, she seems to be perpetually covered in sweat.(and she has to flirt with the girl in 2b in the apartment complex across thestreet to get access to a shower)

She keeps at it for months. Every day. Twenty pushups and thirty weightreps, over and over and over. You can hear it even when you aren’t around. Sheis always out of breath when you call back for information.

She practices combat on a dummy, just like you taught her. You smile everytime she throws a roundhouse kick at it. Nearly breaks it every time and yourheart always feels a little lighter.

She pushes through the pain and the soreness, and never once does shecomplain. Although she does playmusic really loudly starting around the fifth month. You think maybe theMachine is trying to reason with her, tell her to lay off a bit. You know you’vebeen tempted to do the same on more than one occasion. But you know Root. She’stoo stubborn, and so you let her go.

She breaks the dummy and moves onto you.

Needless to say, you gain your fair share of bruises in the weeks to follow.But it’s for a good cause. She channels her anger into it (that much you canfeel).

As her strength grows, your will to stay does too. You want this life.

That just gives you more to lose, though.

…

You wish the worst of your reality problems are moving keys. But that’s justthe tip of the proverbial iceberg. Honestly, you grapple with reality far moreoften than you like. It catches up to you most at night; the dreams makeeverything harder to keep track of.

They punch holes in your otherwise pretty decent lie– no, life, your otherwise pretty decent life.

This dream isn’t anything particularly new, but it is much more vivid thanmost of them. You are just living your new life, the one you are rebuildingwith Root, and suddenly you are awake back under Samaritan’s control, anotherday another simulation failure.

And for some reason, this time, thistime, it makes your world shatter.

How long would these bastards let the simulation run? Wouldthey really let you live out an entire lifetime simulation just to really fuck you up? Just in case you don’t slip up and tip them off?

You wake up screaming, pissed off and frustrated, banging your fist into theconcrete wall beside you until your knuckles bleed.

“You won’t get her,” you shout atthe wall, hoping to God they hear you. Maybe if they believe you they’ll justgive up and kill you.

“Shaw?” Root mumbles sleepily from somewhere in the dark. “I’m right here.”

She sounds so real. You squint into the darkness, and she steps cautiouslycloser. You can see she has on a big t-shirt with a simple “hot stuff” scrawledacross the front and a pair of bunny slippers. Her hair is pulled into a messybun, and she tousles it with a yawn as she sits down on the edge of your bed.

But your head is screaming at you notreal, not real, not real, and with an angry groan, you shove the heels ofyour palms against your temples to try muffling the voice.

She cringes at the sight of the blood on your hands. She pretends she nevereven noticed, though.

“It was a dream,” she soothes, rubbing your leg closest to her. “Do you really want me getting into anothermetaphysical analysis with you?”

You roll your eyes.

“Not exactly.”

She smirks. “Then lay back down.”

You consider going for your weapon instead, but something about her earnesteyes stops you. So you obey, rolling onto your stomach. She scoots up a littlemore, tucking the hair behind your ear with her good arm.

“Where’s Reese when you need him?” your jaw trembles with your subsiding angeras you try to crack a joke. “I could do with a good two word pep talk.”

Terror flashes in her eyes. Had you said something wrong?

“Sameen…” she starts gently, like a kiss before a slap. “John’s…dead.”

Flashes of him lying on the ground beneath you flash across your eyes.

“Shit,” you breathe as guilt twists tight inside your chest, weaving throughyour ribs and pulling them inward. “I tried to fight it. I…I tried.”

You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, but all you can see is the flash of yourmuzzle as you pull the trigger.

“Sameen,” she says it moreforceful than before.

“Get out of here, Root, I’m a danger.”

“Hey,” she snaps roughly, shakingyour shoulder until you open your eyes again. “It wasn’t you. Come back to me.”

Your mind is reeling. You don’t remember how he died if it wasn’t by yourhand.

“What’s real?” you whisper into the sheets, gritting your teeth as a wave ofpain shoots through your head.

She strokes your back through your sweat-slicked shirt. “Are you asking me?”

“I-I don’t know,” you strain, hands in fists and arms flexed tight. “I can’tremember if you’re real either.”

She frowns, but forces it away. “You said the simulations had a pattern.”

You nod; that much you had told her, but you do not elaborate. You can’t.The more you keep to yourself, the more cards you have to play with.

“Ask me about the past,” she commands gently.

For a moment, you actually consider it. But the moment you begin playing outwhere it might lead, you shake your head and laugh bitterly.

“Root, this is stupid.”

Her finger hesitates in its movement along your back.

“I’m just trying to help.” She sounds hurt.

You sigh. It is deep and tired. You should at least humor her for a little. “Howdid we meet?”

“I believe an iron was involved.” She smiles seductively, trying to lightenthe mood.

Your lips twitch upward for a moment, but the feeling that goes with itnever presents itself. “I-I meant, how did we re-meet.”

“Oh.” She traces a pattern over your shirt with her middle finger. “In apark.”

“That happened a few times.”

She cocks her head to the side. “You put a gun to your head.”

Not very helpful.

“That happened more than a few times.”

Beside you, she physically recoils, but recovers, focusing back on thepatterns she is drawing.

“I put a gun to my head.”

Your body tenses, motionless for a moment. You definitely remember that. Andthus far, that is the timeline you have most easily been able to trace in yourmemory. There have been no time gaps, no muddled details. That memory is one ofyour only recent memories that you actually kind of believe happened.

But you have to make sure, you haveto.

“What happened next?”

She shrugs.

“I took you to the park under the bridge.”

You narrow your eyes, trying not to let her know you’re testing her.

“We didn’t go back to the safehouse?”

“No.”

“We didn’t have sex?”

Her mouth had opened before she had fully heard the question, and she stopsmid-breath.

You frown into the silence, turning over to more fully look at her. “Root?”

Her cheeks are red and her mouth is hanging open, a crease between her browswhere she has furrowed them tightly downward.

“No, we haven’t.” It’s quiet.

You sit up a little more. Do you believe her? You trace your memories, butthere are so many that end with youand her, naked and high on pain, only to come crashing down in the nicest ofpillow talks. Those had been the moments you had always wished were real.

The memories fill your mind you can’t possiblybelieve that they hadn’t happened at least once in real life. “How many scarsdo I have?”

Root’s silence is longer. “I don’t know.”

“Tattoos?”

“I don’t...” She can’t even finish the sentence. She looks down at yourbody, as though willing herself to see through her dark shirt to the skinbeneath. But she just sees a black shirt, and her face falls. She looksdistraught. She balls her hands into fists, holding them against her chest likearmor.

You know that look. Shit, you know that look and this isn’t a simulation.This couldn’t be. No computer could ever get that face right.

“Hey,” you say quietly. “Hey, come on.”

“I’m okay.” The words sound flat, but when you really looks at her, shesmiles, loving and assuring.

It’s so damn believable, you doesn’t have the heart to argue.

“Are you okay?” she asks, looking for some reassurance.

You nod tiredly. “Yeah. Go back to sleep.”

…

She goes three days without touching you. She’s allbusiness, no pleasure and you knowthat is just not her style.

Had you hurt her feelings?

Was she upset that you had mind sex with an artificialintelligence pretending to be her, againstyour will, as a form of torture?

Well…when you put it like that, it does sound kind ofoffensive.

You run your hand over your face, forcing some composure.

She’s got herself buried in the job, in the numbers, to thepoint where if you are in the subway, she is out on the street, only returningto get a change of clothes.

She comes in like a whirlwind, already stripping out of herjacket before she crosses the threshold.

“Hey.” You feel almost nervous.

“Hey,” she answers with a forced lilt mimicking happiness.

“Are you okay?”

She frowns as she passes you, as though confused.

“Of course,” she brushes off. “Why?”

You almost feel stupid for thinking something is off, butyou aren’t giving up just yet. You follow her step for step as she heads forher alcove, digging around in her drawers for a change of clothes.

“I dunno, you seem…distant?”

She glances over at you, and for a second you think you seeterror at being caught, but she quickly pushes it down, reaching over andtouching your arm. Your body breathes a sigh of relief at the contact. “Anycloser and I’d be on top of you.”

At least it was a joke.

But it wasn’t a solution.

“Please talk to me Root.”

“I am.”

“No.” you roughly grab her good elbow as she turns to go.“You’re not. You’re not flirting with me, you’re not cracking jokes. You’re noteven smiling.”

At this, she smiles a weak, sad smile. “You do care.”

You scowls. “That’s not-“ you cut yourself off with a groan.“That’s not the point.”

You don’t deny it, though. You give her that much.

“Is it what happened last night?”

Root shrugs, and you feel the inevitability of this gamecoming to an end. Your game of chicken is teetering dangerously close to acliff face; it’s no longer about who can better pretend that nothing is wrong. Youand she are both clearly very capableof turning a blind eye. But it was bleeding away from the job and bleeding into your personal life, and that waswhere you drew the line.

“Root,” you tryagain, and it’s not forceful, but pleading. A question.

Her apathy falters, and you see the concern in her eyes forjust a moment, just a relievingmoment.

She shrugs again, but this time it’s less certain, and shebobs her head in a small affirmation. An acknowledgement that something iswrong but that is it.

“I don’t want to do this,” she whispers, and you immediatelycatch the fear weaved deep into it.

“The…the numbers?” you guess.

She shakes her head.

“It’ll collapse.” She pinches the bridge of her nose andsqueezes her eyes tightly shut, trying desperately not to cry. “we-we’llcollapse,” she says it quieter, under her breath, but you hear it perfectly.

You know this is not the emotion you should be feeling, butit forces you to laugh. She blinks at you, startled and terrified.

“Root. I literally told you I don’t know if you’re real ornot.”

She frowns like she doesn’t see the relevance.

“And you stayed.”

She gives the same look.

You laugh again, and she looks conflicted. She likes yourlaugh, but she isn’t quite sure why it’s happening.

“If we can get through my entire collapse of reality, Ithink we can survive a little miscommunication.”

This time, you can’t read her face. She inspects you for along moment before speaking.

“That’s easy for you to say. This conversation might ormight not be real.”

You squint at her, and her eyes are laughing. Even thecorner of her mouth twitches upward for just a moment. She was…screwing with you.

You grin is broad and your chest loosens a tension youhadn’t previously been aware of.

“Okay then hit me with your worst.”

She looks hesitant, looking down at her hands and picking ather fingers. She isn’t sure where to start.

Carefully, you reach over and grasp her hands until shecannot fidget, and she peers down at you. And for the first time in a long fewmonths, you think maybe you’re ready for this conversation too.

What you get is nota conversation.

She pulls you in for a kiss, just as hard and desperate asyour first, laced with just as much fear as though this were her last chance.She tugs you in with the lapels of your jacket, fists balling up the fabric sotightly you have to stand on your toes to keep in line with them.

But oh do you keep with her. Your heart pounds because you know this dance and your body acceptsthis. It needs it. Anticipationspikes in your blood, and you kiss her back hard, hands falling to her hips forcontact and balance.

She steps into your hold, and your hands slip to the smallof her back, pressing her hips to you as she kisses you again, parting yourlips with a gentle tongue before catching your lip with her teeth.

It isn’t rough. Not nearly as painful as you remember.

You dig your nails into the small of her back, and shegasps, hard and surprised into your mouth, and even though her hips roll inresponse, she does not mirror the violence. Despite how delighted the twist ofher lips is, her next kiss is softer.

And you are frustrated.

Winning a one-sided fight is no victory.

Still, you try, pushing her arms down so hard she has torelease your jacket. You push her hard enough that she has to take a step back,slamming into the wall, and her laugh is just a rush of air, pushed from herlungs from the bricks at her back. It satisfies something small inside you, butall that does is make you itch to sate it completely.

You kiss her hard, using your hips to press her more intothe wall, and when her hands slip into your hair, you grab one and yank itfree. Your other hand goes to her neck, using just enough pressure to give herwarning. If she wants this she will fight your way. She opens her mouth to takein some air, and you catch the smirk she is trying so desperately to hide, butyou wait until she does what you want.

Slowly, she retracts her hand from your hair, andimmediately you kiss her again, parted lips and heavy breaths. She grins intothe kiss, and for a moment you think maybe you won, for she sucks your bottomlip, then bites until it twinges painfully.

But, oh are you wrong. She uses your hand still on her neckas leverage, twisting it until you are forced to follow, spinning around until your back is the one pressed into thewall. All her strength training certainly paid off. She grips one of yourwrists firmly as she bites your ear, exhaling against it. The hair down yourarms stands on end.

“Sameen,” she scolds, just above a whisper. “You are workingvery hard to ruin this for me.”

She bites your neck just below your jaw fleetingly, kissingit gently after. Your body flushes, your hips rolling against her for somerelief. She allows it, but tsks in your ear.

“Now either you be good and do this my way, or we don’t doit at all.”

It dawns on you that this is not a one-sided fight, but a very two-sided one that you are losing. She may not be rough, but she isstrong and willing to prove it.

“I have been waiting a long time for this,” she punctuatesthe sentence with a firm press of her fingers on the inseam of your pants, and God does it feel like you have too.

She nuzzles the skin behind your ear, trailing her nose downuntil she finds another spot on your neck to scrape her teeth againstteasingly. “Believe me when I say we’ll get to all that pain I promised you,”she assures, low and fervent, and your mind cannot help but flash to the largenumber of handcuff and iron innuendoes she’s made. “But,” the word is sharp,“that is for later.”

She bites the tender part of your neck, and you hiss, firstin pain but then she sucks the skin, running her tongue over it in a patternthat twists a knot into your stomach.

She brushes her lips slowly up your neck, kissing your jawonce. “Clear?”

The word hangs over you like an ultimatum, heavy with herpower. It is so damn sexy. You’vebeen with a lot of people. A lot of very strong, very large people, and neverin your life have you felt so matched.

You do not nod. Instead you use your fingers to tilt herhead back to your face, kissing her firmly. Not hard or rough, but not soft.She isn’t getting that.

The way she beams against your lips tells you she hadn’t wanted soft.

And, having reached some sort of understanding, your clothesstart going, first your shirt and then your bra, followed by hers. She doesn’tlet you get farther though, for she is back against you, deep kisses andshallow presses of her hips. You unconsciously mirror her, rocking your hipssubtly with each of her movements; the friction is so teasing, enough for ajolt of pleasure and a swell of relief before it comes back twice as strong,twice as desperate to be sated.

She is a fan of nails, you quickly find. Using them, thatis. She sinks them as far into the skin of your back as they will go withoutactually breaking it, dragging them down so hard and slow it burns. Each timeshe does it, you suck in a breath, exhaling shakily as each new scratch poolsnew heat between your legs.

She kisses along your collarbone, scraping her teeth againstit just to let you know she can. The threat of it makes you shudder. She is quickto made good on that threat, kissing softly down your chest only to bite hardat the swell of your breast.

A moan catches in your throat, and you swallow it down,closing your eyes to try holding your composure.

She kisses every one of your scars, deliberate and slow,much gentler than she is with everything else.

“Sameen,” she whispers your name when you should be whisperinghers. It is reverent, her breath ghosting over your stomach so teasing it makesa shudder roll up your spine. She nips at one of your hip bones, dragging hernails down the curve of your back as she drops to her knees.

She kisses beneath your navel, unbuttoning your pants andpulling them down with a few aided tugs. She presses another kiss along theedge of your underwear, hooking her thumbs underneath them at your hips andpulling them down.

As they drop to the floor, she strokes her way up the backsof your thighs, sliding her hands smoothly up the curve of your ass. She keepsthem there, kissing the top of one of your thighs first, then another alongyour inner thigh.

It’s so agonizing,and in any other circumstance, youwould press her closer. But you are not playing chicken with a woman whoalready won a game of chicken withher pistol to her throat. If she said she would stop, you know she will.

Instead, you clench your fists, digging your nails into yourpalms until you’re sure they will bleed. But it relieves some of the itchingneed.

The first dip of her tongue seems to fuel your arousal instead of fulfill it. You suck in a breaththrough your teeth, white-knuckled and overwhelmed. She nudges your leg up ontoher shoulder for working room, and she uses every bit of it.

Not at first, though.

No, she starts slow, long licks and dull pressure, enough tomake a girl squirm. You fight it as long as you can though, teeth gritted andhead thrown back, moans curling up your throat. She rarely comes up for air,timing her breathing well with the strokes of her tongue, increasing herpressure as she settles into a rhythm.

Your lower abdomen twinges with every lick until it iscontinuous, concentrating lower and lower until you feel like you are going toimplode if she doesn’t do something else. Your skin feels hot, humming withsensitivity as she pulls you closer, tilts her chin up higher. She uses herfingers as well as her tongue, and when she presses them into you, your legswobble.

You grip the corner of the wall with one hand to steadyyourself, the other finding a satisfying grip in her hair. Apparently she likesit too, for she gasps when you grip harder, only to redouble her efforts backon you.

She curls her fingers with every stroke and everythingbuilds up so quickly. Too quickly you say, as though you hadn’t been there forat least twenty minutes in writhingagony dangling over an edge you didn’t think you’d ever fall over.

She gets you there, though. She just keeps her rhythm andher pressure, unwaveringly steady until you feel heat snap from your abdomendown your legs and straight up, setting off a trembling in your legs and atingling in your feet. It ripples up your spine in searing waves, and you haveto clamp down on every muscle in your body to keep from jerking hard enough toknock you over.

Even after all the tremors subside, your heart continuespounding, your lungs burning for air despite your heavy breathing.

She helps you remove the pants still around one ankle andcoaxes you into bed. She follows, and it is just you and her sharing air in thesmall single bed.

You lay there for a long while, quiet and unmoving, justfeeling the rise and fall of her chest underneath your arm.

You do not have words to tell her how you feel. That’s notdifferent, though. What’s different is you have this sudden nagging feelingthat you need to have words toexpress them to her. And you know the words that are supposed to fit, like happiness and satisfaction or, god forbid, love.

Every test run of those words in your head though, feelwrong. Like a square peg in a round hole. And it is frustrating.

“Sameen?” she looks worried, her eyebrows quirked down asshe inspects your face.

Her voice is delicate like icicles and the simple soundsnaps the word you are looking for right in your face.

You feel real.

Something you have not been able to say in months.

In a moment of sheer relief and appreciation, you stretchover and kiss her hard. It is wrong – too rough and angry – but you don’t care.You inhale deeply, cupping her jaw as a sort of hold to keep her close, to keepher lips to yours for just a moment longer. Slowly, you break the kiss with a carefulexhale, and you can feel her smile where your hand is on her cheeks. Shestretches up to give you a small extra kiss against your nose.

And in that moment, the intense obligation to vocalize yourfeelings is gone. You don’t need to say it. She knows. She has to.

“You’re a freak,” you murmur, stroking her cheek once andcracking a grin.

She raises her eyebrows for a moment, smirking despiteherself. “I haven’t even brought out the zip ties,” she equips, turning herface to press a gentle kiss against your palm before gently biting it. You pushher away and she is grinning happily. She turns her head back though, and yourhand falls naturally into its previous resting place against her face and neck.

…

You spend a week in this strange ritual of shuffling beds.Sometimes you sleep in yours, sometimes she is there and sometimes she isn’t.Sometimes you sleep in hers. There isno pattern to it, not a discernable one anyway. Sometimes there’s sex,sometimes there isn’t.

Either way it’s all unfamiliar territory. You’re a love andleave kinda girl.

You wake up in the middle of the night when you hear stranglednoises. You go from half-awake to completely aware in half a second, on yourfeet and reaching for your gun. As you near Root’s side of the room, you don’tfind anyone else. Just her. Curled up tight into herself, whimpering andclutching her fists.

Her face is stained red in blotches and streaks, and in thelight you see the tears still balanced on the curve of her cheeks.

You sigh, half in relief, and set your gun down on thenearest table before nudging your way into the tight coil of her body.

She unfolds only long enough to allow it before she tightensagain, pulling herself against you with surprising force. She doesn’t stopcrying.

“Root,” you whisper, gently prodding at her side. “C’mon,Root you gotta wake up.”

The effect is not as gentle as you had hoped. She jerksawake, and instantly she is sobbing, hard and ragged against your neck.

This is the first time you’ve seen her so broken. You hadthought she was fine.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, trying to choke down the sobs byclenching her jaw to tightly the air can’t escape. That doesn’t stop thehiccups or the trembling of her chest, but it seems to stem the flow of tears.

“It’s okay,” you say, slightly surprised. You didn’t mind. Youknew her feelings had always been flaring and wild. It wasn’t anything new. Although, after thinking a moment,you aren’t sure you’d seen her cry more than a few tears ever.

She releases you, wiping at her face with her bent wrist.

“Are you…okay?”

The answer is so obvious you probably shouldn’t haveanswered the question, but even still you get a lie.

“It was just a dream, Sameen.” She says it so firmly, makingsure to force out any waver from the tears. She has had to be the one keepingthe both of you up while you sorted out your problems that you never evenconsidered that she had any.

You aren’t sure what to say. Were you supposed to ask abouther feelings? Let her tell you on her own? Give her the opportunity to?

This…whatever itwas, was hard. (this relationship?)

“Do you, uhh…” you frown, glancing over at her in the darkbefore continuing. “…wanna talk about it?”

The silence is long and heavy, the only thing filling it herunsteady breath.

“I…” she hesitates, and something in her eyes tells you shehas already given up. “I just thought you were still gone.”

She leaves it at that, curling back up on her bed andturning to face the wall.

You stay where you are on the edge of the bed until shefalls back to sleep. You stay until youfall asleep, and you wake up with a list of numbers on her pillow, a few tinyhearts scrawled into the margins like nothing had happened at all.

…

“Can you…show me something?” you ask the Machine one nightwhen Root is off scouting a number.

She pops up a window of Root at a coffee shop, the pink ofsunrise spilling in from the windows behind her.

You shake your head.

“I mean, yeah, but…before. Show me…what I missed.”

The cursor blinks a few times before she answers.“Timeline?”

You only have to think for a moment before you heart beginsto sink.

How long were yougone? A month? A year? You…you don’tknow. At one time, you had thought it to be nine months. But you don’t trustyour perception of time anymore.

You press your lips together, leaning back in the chair.“Stock market crash. Start there.”

The Machine delivers, from the very moment they stepped footfrom the stock market, you see a fire in her eyes.

Rampage in her heart.

Your heart sinks down into your gut as you watch her teeteron the edge of that skyscraper, arguing with a God over you no less. She is desperate and alone and she has nothing to losebecause she had already lost it all.You don’t know how you missed that in her.

She had nothing. That’s what made her so valuable.

You can still hear her in your head chastising you for yourrecklessness, all the times you went off the reservation a little too far. Andyet here she is. That same woman lived for these months with not a single care for her life. No, it wasn’t just theledge. She walks willingly into traps, fights angry instead of smart. This is the same girl who nearly criedon the street in the middle of New York City because you were being a littlehasty.

And you are shocked as the footage unfolds in front of you,hour by hour.

She cries so many nights. Cries in front of the computer,cries herself to sleep. The Machine speeds these up, but even timelapsed itfeels like hours go by just watching her sob into her hands, her desk.

She was broken but she put herself together with duct tape andglue and stood up again and again.

You cannot count the number of people you watch her torture.Some is just audio, but that doesn’t make it any less vivid.

“Tell me where Sameenis.” She is cold. Stone cold and tired, defeated by the world around her. Theapathy in her eyes is suffocating as she Tasers him over and over.

“Where is she?!” Thereis desperation in her voice, an anger in her lungs as she lunges at hercaptive, drill in hand.

Images of her grappling with Martine, vicious and unforgiving with every punch, every griparound her throat. You see the undeniable sight of joy in her eyes as Martine’sbody crumples at her bedside. Triumphant where defeat used to live.

She knows she will win this fight.

You watch her follow every lead, fight Harold and John andthe Machine until her voice is hoarse and her tears are long gone, untilsomebody listens.

You brush your fingers against your lips as you watch hersend that message to you, the message that saved your life.

You laugh sadly. She seemed to save your life a lot.

You watch her walking in the park, watch yourself take herdown like the enemy. Watch her scramble to her feet in your moment of sheerconfusion and shock.

“Shaw!”

Her voice is so happy even in her breathlessness. Your namewas weightless on her lips.

You remember how it felt in her arms. God it felt so good,you hadn’t wanted it to feel so good.It had been that much harder to pull yourself away. Your throat tightens. Yourgun had felt so heavy; you had forgotten for a second why living in a fakeworld would be so bad.

But looking up into her tear stained face had reminded youthat the real Root needed you. Turnsout you were both right and wrong. The real Root had needed you, but she was right there.

And you don’t know it but you are crying as you watch yourstandoff in the park, your gun to your temple and hers to her throat.

It looks so strange, at such a stagnant angle from so faraway, an unclear mass of pixels on a screen. But it is so clear. So clear andyou didn’t see.

It wasn’t just a threat to her. It wasn’t just a play totalk you down. If you pulled that trigger, she would have too. Without a doubt.Without a single regret in her world, she would have killed herself even if youweren’t alive to see.

You blink and finallyyou feel the tears, and you brush them away with the pads of your fingers.

In that moment, you aren’t sure who suffered more. You orher. You may have been tortured, but at least it was with purpose. At leastthere was a goal. The world torturedher. Chewed her up and spit her out with no mercy, no rhyme or reason and shejust got up and kept fighting a ghost with her bare hands.

You turn away from the screen and the Machine returns theMonitor to the coffee shop.

“Is that what you wanted?” She asks.

You manage to nod, wiping a few more of your tears away.“Thank you.”

It is solemn.

You tap your com. “Root?”

“Yes?” she sounds a little hesitant, but nothing too off.

“We…we need to talk.”

“Now is…not a good time.” She sounds strained this time.

Frowning, you glance back at the monitor. She is no longerin her seat in the café.

“Where are you?” You ask, sitting up in your seat andleaning toward the computer.

“Turns out,” she says through gritted teeth, “our number wasquite an expert on counter-surveillance. He made me and I had to…engage.”

You sigh, closing your eyes. “Engage? Root, no…”

You hear crashes and shouting in the background. Andgunfire.

“Root…” you groan.

“It’s okay!” she says brightly and out of breath. “I’ve gotit under control.”

There’s a lot of shuffling and a few more muffled yells. Youput your head in your hands.

“What did you want to talk about?” she sounds completelyserious, still straining with something or, well, someone.

You snort. “It can wait.”

“It sounded serious,” she prods with gentle curiosity.

“I…” This isn’t the right time, and you know it, but it’s Root and she won’t let it go. “I’msorry, okay? I’m sorry I was so caught up in my bullshit that I couldn’t seeyours. And I’m sorry that I’d rather…forget the past than face it.”

She laughs sadly, and a few more gunshots go off.

“Shaw,” she soothes, the strain in her voice finally gone, “I’mfine.”

“But you weren’t.Not when I was gone.”

She pauses, the static of the microphone filling thesilence. “I wasn’t. But I got by. And I got you back.”

“Most of me, anyway,” you mutter under your breath.

“All of you,” shecorrects gently. “and I love every bit.”

You are the one who falls silent now.

Love.

Your chest stirs for a moment.

“I, uhh,” you clear your throat; something had lodged itselfin there (something real, it had tobe). “I’m glad we had this talk.”

You can hear the beaming in her voice when she speaks. “Areyou flustered?” she teases.

“Just-“ you groan and shake your head, even though shecannot see. “Just take care of the number, will you?”

“Yes ma’am,” she agrees, playfully serious in an overlygruff voice.

You smirk. “Go easy on him, will you? I don’t like having toexplain all the Taser burns on them when they wake up.”

There is a long pause.