Root likes to play delicate, even though Shaw's certain she's had more action than she lets on. More than Shaw has anyway, at least when it comes to women.
Right now, Root's lying on her stomach in their half-made bed, legs crooked up behind her while she taps on her phone, talking idly to the Machine in broken sentences. Shaw is just back from a run, prowling around the tiny loft they've been living in. Her limbs feel loose and heavy, a pleasant, limber kind of fatigue, and the sight of Root, clad in a USMC t-shirt and pink panties with lace trim, makes her want to wrestle.
She takes a few steps and pounces, from all the way across the room, landing on top of Root and pinning her. Root drops the phone and squeals, thrashing wildly under Shaw's weight, hair going everywhere: between Shaw's teeth and in her eyes. That's no impediment, though, and Shaw can find every ticklish point on Root's bony frame: up the ribs, back of the knee, the top of her skinny butt. All the while, Root kicks up a storm, giggling and squealing and batting ineffectually at Shaw's hands.
Eventually, when Root can't catch her breath anymore, Shaw flips her over and kisses her, slow and languorous, propped above her on one elbow.
"You'd better not fight like that when it's serious," says Shaw.
Root's eyes are half closed and her smile is wide. She reaches for a strand of hair and uses it to tickle the end of Shaw's nose. "Don't worry, Sameen. I can fight like a girl when I need to."
"Good." Shaw brushes away the annoying lock of hair, and puts her mouth to Root's throat. There's still plenty of morning left, and Shaw has energy to spare on turning those squeals to sighs.