Root wanders a New York dreamscape with leaden legs, chased by red-eyed monsters. When she wakes, her throat is dry and she's in Shaw's bed, with an IV hanging next to the Order of Lenin, and a dog across her feet.
Shaw sits beside her, sharpening a knife.
"Is that for emergency surgery?" Root rasps.
Shaw's eyes are angry. "That's for the next time you let a bullet wound go septic." Still, she hands her a bottle of water, presses a steady hand to Root's forehead.
Root sips gratefully; the water is cool and wonderful. "I love you too, sweetie."