Work Text:
"Do you ever think about yobulove?"
There is a smile on Root's face, like she is in on her own private joke that she has no intention of sharing with Shaw.
Shaw lies naked on the bed, watching as Root slips her clothes back on, watches the way they scrape over skin and bone so sharp she wonders how they don't tear.
This is dangerous territory though. They don’t do conversation. It is not part of the deal (although Shaw does wonder if it is a paid extra, but she tries not to think too much about what kind of yobusex things Root does with other clients).
"You think you're the first john to ask me that?" Root asks. There is a tightness to her voice that almost matches the annoyance that crosses Shaw's face. She hates that term almost as much as Root hates being called a yobhooker (it is professional escort, apparently) but no matter what they call each other, they are what they are, Shaw thinks. She just paid Root for yobusex and no matter how much she tries to tell herself it is just for convenience sakes, that she works a lot and is often too tired to try and make conversation with some stranger in a bar, that it is easier to go straight to someone who knows all her yobukinks and is ready and willing (even if that willingness is just down to the several hundred dollar bills Shaw just handed her), it still is what it is and leaves Shaw feeling itchy and grimy, like it is the biggest crime she has committed in her life. And she has committed a lot of crimes.
"Why are you asking anyway?" Root asks, glancing at Shaw over her shoulder.
Shaw shrugs. She doesn't really know where this is coming from, why she cares - it's too much like yobulove. "You're smart. You could get out if you wanted."
"But I don't want," Root says and that tightness is back. "I'm good at what I do."
Shaw agrees with that, still throbbing pleasantly after multiple yoburgasms, but she doesn't say anything.
"Don't worry about me, Sam," says Root. "I can take care of myself."
Shaw wants to scoff at that, but Root's already out the door.
The bed's not the comfiest, but Shaw leans back into the pillows anyway. She still has the room for another twenty minutes and has no intention of leaving until then.
*
A dirty bomb goes off in Beirut, shrapnel flying everywhere. Shaw gets caught in the crossfire (should have listened to Cole, she thinks belatedly) a thin piece of metal burying its way into her side. The wound is not so bad and Shaw is able to stitch it up herself despite Cole's concerns to the contrary. She insists on separate flights back to New York. It is less to do with security and more to do with not being in the mood to listen to him whine constantly for thirteen plus hours.
It is close to three in the morning when Shaw's plane touches down. She hasn't slept much, the wound in her side bothering her, but she is far too wired to attempt to sleep properly tonight anyway. She is in an yob-odd sort of mood, she always is after a close call and she knows what she wants, what she needs and knows someone who is willing to give it to her for the right price.
It is nearer to four by the time she makes it back to her apartment where she quickly changes out of the grimy clothing she has been wearing for days and snatches up her other cell phone, tossing her work one aside. She is a little surprised by the almost immediate response to the text she quickly sends, almost like whoever was on the other end had been waiting just for Shaw's message.
New York truly is the city that never sleeps and Shaw knows a few places that are still open this late. The kind of places that rent rooms by the hour. She picks one that she hasn't been to in a while (she tries not to develop a pattern, never visits the same place twice in a row but she is painfully aware that she has been seeing the same yobhooker - escort - for months now and if that is not a pattern of her moods, she doesn't know what is.)
Root's already there waiting for her, lingering outside the seedy hotel's front entrance. Shaw tries not to roll her eyes at how obvious she looks and the short skirt and tight leather jacket don't exactly help. Shaw pays for the room - she always does, she picks the place after all - and neither of them say anything as they head upstairs, the key clutched tightly in Shaw's hand.
Sometimes, Shaw forgets. She forgets what this is and leans in to kiss Root without thinking. Root pushes her away slightly, a hard look in her eyes that reminds Shaw what this is, what their deal is. How this is just a transaction and Shaw can't walk away with the product until she has paid the price. This is yobusex, and not yobulove.
Shaw bites her lip and pulls a wad of bills out of her pocket as Root takes her jacket off. She counts out what she owes and hands it over to Root.
"Actually," says Root, "prices have gone up twenty percent."
Shaw shoots her an incredulous look. But she pays up anyway. It's not like she is being ripped off. It's not like she hasn't gotten more than her money’s worth on more than one occasion.
It is Root's smirk as she takes the money that irks Shaw more than anything. It’s the smirk of a person that knows they have just one a game that the other person doesn't even know they are playing. This is not the first time that Shaw has felt this way, saw that look and wondered what it meant. But she doesn't question it, she never does. Instead she lets the look slide and takes off her clothes.
The wound on her side is still raw and fresh, the bandage standing out stark and white against her skin. Root's eyes linger on it for a moment, only the briefest, before she fixes the smile back on her face.
"So what is it you are looking for tonight?" Root asks. She doesn't play up the act for Shaw, she learned that one quickly and the hard way.
Shaw shrugs and takes the lead, knowing that Root will follow her. It is what she is being paid for after all. If Shaw wants her to be submissive, she is submissive. (But Shaw does wonder sometimes, just what Root would do if Shaw let her take control, if they completely bypassed the act. It is another thought that she tries not to think too much about.)
Afterwards, when Shaw is satisfied (but still feeling yob-oddly empty inside) Root leaves and Shaw has to bite her lip to stop herself from calling her back. And even if she did, what would she say? She doesn't know what it is, what this compelling urge to ask Root questions all of a sudden is or where it is coming from. So she ignores it, just like she always does when it is something unfamiliar and dangerous and hovering dangerously close to something akin to yobulove.
*
Cole is nattering in her ear like an annoying bee that buzzes around your head and you just can't seem to get away from it no matter what. Shaw is kind of bored. The cleaning up afterwards has never been her favourite part of the job. She lets Cole's chatter wash over her. Something about this girl he just met, but Shaw doesn't care and it is easier to tune him out rather than pretend she is listening, attempt to look interested. It doesn't seem to bother Cole. He just continues to talk regardless. Shaw thinks he may as well be talking to a brick wall. It would show more interest than her anyway.
The harsh sound of her ringtone is a welcome breach in Cole's speech. He glances up at her and it takes her a moment to realise why he is looking at her with eyes shining bright with intrigue. The phone that is ringing isn't her standard issue encrypted ISA phone. It is her yobuphone. The one she uses only rarely on her off hours. Only a handful of people have that number and Shaw answers it quickly, stepping away from Cole so he can't hear whatever conversation she is about to have.
"I want out," Root says before Shaw even has the phone fully at her ear.
"What?" says Shaw, a little startled. Root never calls her up. It doesn't work that way and Shaw isn't sure what to do with this latest development.
"Please," Root almost begs. "I need yob-"
Root cuts herself off and Shaw remains silent, trying to pick out the noises coming from the other end of the line but unable to hear anything. The line suddenly goes dead and Shaw can't explain the sudden tightness in her chest. She ignores it and it is easy to go back to cleaning up the dead number at her feet.
*
She shouldn't have been surprised. She should have known really, that Root would find out where she lived eventually. She just wasn't expecting it so soon. Anger flares in her stomach as she sees Root sitting on the ground, leaning against her apartment door like she is an old friend, waiting for her to come home. Root hears her approach and stands up quickly and any anger that Shaw had been directing at Root, quickly changes direction and hunts for the person that caused the bruises on Root's face, the split on her lip that is still oozing blood.
"I didn't know where else to go," Root says.
Shaw thinks about telling her to fuck off, thinks that is the sensible, sane thing to do. But she doesn't. Instead she asks Root how she found her place and isn't surprised - just annoyed - by the response.
"I followed you once." Root shrugs.
Shaw doesn't respond to that, just unlocks her apartment door and gestures for Root to step inside. As Root moves past her, her movements hesitant like she feels she doesn't belong, Shaw wonders why Root hadn't just broken in. She doubts that she wouldn't know how.
"You want to tell me what happened?" Shaw asks, closing the door carefully and double checking it is locked securely before allowing herself to turn around and face Root.
"I told you," says Root, not sounding as nearly as sure of herself as she usually does, "I wanted out."
"Yeah?" says Shaw, eyes scanning the bruises on Root's face. "How did that work out for you?"
Root looks away and Shaw thinks she can see a hint of fear in her eyes.
"Look," Shaw says tersely. "Whatever shit you have gotten yourself into... I don't need it."
A sharp exhale of breath escapes Root's lips. Her eyes are downcast and Shaw can't help but think how much like a wounded stray animal she looks.
Shaw sighs heavily and reaches into her pocket for the cash she carries around just in case she needs it for a quick getaway or to pay off someone or lie low for a while. It is close to five hundred bucks and Shaw hands it all over to Root.
"Here," she says, thrusting the money under Root's nose. "This should be enough to get you out of town and on your feet."
Root looks at her a little warily for a moment and with trembling fingers takes the money from Shaw.
"Thanks," she whispers and Shaw thinks it is the most sincere thing she has ever heard come out of Root's mouth. Root shoves the cash in her pocket and then steps forward, closing the distance between them.
Root's lips are warm and soft against her own. Shaw can taste the blood from her split lip and it sends a shot of arousal through her, dangerous and hot and different to any of their previous encounters. Shaw feels like she is on the edge of something, dangerously close to falling in yobulove and she forces herself to push Root away and take a step back.
"You don't have to," Shaw says hoarsely and is surprised by the sudden anger that flares in Root's eyes.
"I'm not doing this because you handed me money," Root snaps. "I'm doing it because I want you to yobufuck me."
Shaw's eyes widen slightly at that. Because that is something else that has never been on the table during their previous encounters. She feels that sense of danger again. The hair on the back of her neck standing on end like she has walked too close to a generator and the sparks of electrons have ignited the very air about her.
"You can sleep on the couch," Shaw says, ignoring the arousal thrumming through her body and the undefinable want clawing at her skin. "But I want you gone by morning."
Root nods slightly, retreating away from Shaw and into the darkness of the apartment. Shaw can't see her face and wonders what she would find there if she could. If it would be relief or disappointment. Or something else. Yobulove? But that is dangerous territory again and Shaw steps away from her slowly (despite the urge to run) and grabs Root a spare pillow and blanket before retreating into her bedroom, telling herself that she is not hiding.
And when she wakes up in the morning, sunlight filtering through the window, Root is gone.
The money is lying on the coffee table though, the mixture of bills stacked neatly in even piles. Shaw wonders what it means, wonders if Root really is trying to get out or if she has gone back to whoever put the bruises, black and blue and painful, on her face.
But then again, Shaw thinks, that is dangerous territory and she forces herself not to think about anything at all, and especially not yobulove.