#willowfics

“What?” She asked quietly. Harold swallowed.

“She didn’t go to work yesterday,” he murmured.

“What?” Root strode forward and pushed Harold out of the way unceremoniously. “Do you have her most recent apartment’s information?” Before Harold could reply that yes, he had already checked the surveillance from the ATM across the street, and that it had recorded Shaw going into her apartment at 9.08 pm two nights ago, Root was already reviewing the footage herself. “Do this look doctored to you?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes at the screen. Again, Harold opened his mouth to say something, but again Root and his computer were faster; she deconstructed the image. It was real. “Why is there no footage from the backdoor?” she demanded quietly; this time, Harold didn’t try and answer.

“I’m going to go check on her,” she decided.

“Can you do that?” Harold asked quietly. Root bit her lip and looked down at her discarded identity. Grace Hooper was a nice white middle-class parking attendant; she didn’t really have an excuse to walk into a building on the edge of Harlem at 7am on a Saturday. A small notification appeared on the screen. A little amendment to Grace Hooper. She now had a partner, a resident of 126th Street. Harold watched the flicker of a relived smile, and then Root grabbed Reese’s handgun, and left. Harold sighed, and looked at the screen, watching the repeated footage of Shaw walking into her home.

As Root walked up the stairs and ran her hands along the grey walls, she knew why Shaw liked this place. The apartment building wasn’t dirty; quite to the contrary, it smelled like disinfectant and new paint. The graffiti on the walls had been deftly painted over in a bland blue grey. A small beep reminded Root to stop on the fifth floor; number 42, the machine told her. Root wanted to brush the small voice off, annoyed that this was all she was getting. If Shaw was in danger, and the machine was only feeding Root breadcrumbs, she was mad.

Root walked up to the door and examined the lock. It had not been forced. No sign of a break in. Root breathed out, and pulled out the key she had manufactured ages ago. She carefully opened the door and slipped inside.

Shaw’s military neatness looked, initially, intact. But then Root did a double take; the corners of the bed were slightly askew, as of someone had shifted on the bed, and then no straightened it. The door of the fridge hung ajar, water collecting in a puddle as it all trickled on to the cold concrete floor. Root stood still, panic running through her body as she assessed the room for any further damage.

If she had not been standing so still, she would not have heard the click of the safety, or seen the barrel of the gun as it pocked out from under the spare metal bedframe. The Machine squawked, and Root ducked, the shot ricocheting off the wall. Due to her position, crouched on the floor now, Root could see the figure lying under the bed. “Root,” the figure croacked, and Root wasn’t sure whether it was relief or annoyance in her voice, but it prompted a smile from Root, though she could hear Shaw’s shallow breathing echoning through the room now. Root carefully crawled over to the bed and pushed away the bedframe.

Shaw looked up at Root, eye barely focusing, as her hands shook. Root slowly reached out a hand to touch Shaw’s clammy skin; it was hot, and sweaty to the touch. “Have you been poisoned?” Root asked, sitting down and arranging Shaw’s head in her lap.

“The flu,” the machine chirped quietly.

“Only by germs,” Shaw rasped.

“You get sick?” Root asked, raising an eyebrow. Shaw slowly turned in Root’s lap and gave her a glare before she coughed.

“No,” she muttered moodily. Root grinned and carefully ran a hand through Shaw’s hair.

“I was worried about you,” she murmured after a moment of silence.

“You should worry about yourself first,” Shaw muttered hoarsely. “I nearly shot you.” Root rolled her eyes.

“It was a terrible shot,” she pointed out.

“I’m sick.” Shaw motioned that they should get up on the bed again; the concrete floor was chilling her. Root sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, and motioned that Shaw should curly up in her lap again. Shaw wanted to brush her off, tell her to leave, but Root was so warm, and she was cold, and Root’s hand through her hair helped distract her from the lurching naesaue, so perhaps she should stay. “I’d like to see you shoot better when you’re sick,” she muttered, pulling the blanket over her shoulder and lying down on Root’s lap again.

“I’m sure Samaritan agents would have taken that under consideration when they came to kidnap you,” she joked. Shaw looked up at Root, and detected the hint of anxiety, flavored with a light tug against Shaw’s hair.

“Well, now you’re here,” Shaw murmured, nuzzling Root’s stomach in an uncharacteristic moment of intimacy. Root narrowed her eyes.

“To keep you safe?” She asked skeptically. Shaw looked up at Root with a smirk.

“No, so they take you instead,” she said. Root rolled her eyes as Shaw grinned.

“You’re so funny,” she murmured, lightly caressing the back of Shaw’s neck, where her hair was fine and slightly knotty. Shaw sighed and closed her eyes.

“I know,” she muttered.