Chapter Text
It is never in Root’s nature to pick people up for a one nightstand. In general, she finds spending time with bad codes more of a waste than fulfilling. Although as she makes her way to the bar and spots a woman getting unwanted attention from a drunk man, she pivots to their direction. She still doesn’t intend to pick anyone, but she isn’t against playing princess charming either. A couple of feet away, she notices with a grin that she will be a knight in shining armor for him instead of her.
“Pardon me,” says Root, not meaning it one bit as she sneaks herself between the two and straightens her shoulders. Her sudden intrusion pushes the man backwards, but she pays no mind at his protest. “Whiskey neat, please,” she says to the bartender, who notices her right away because it isn’t even that packed on a Wednesday night, then turns a little to actually look at the woman.
The friendly smile Root is going to offer falters when she catches a pair of dark eyes staring at her. Root isn’t as vain as to grade people based on their looks, mostly because again, they all bad codes to her and a pretty package doesn’t guarantee a decent personality, but she recognizes beauty when she sees one and this woman just takes her breath away. From the way a slow smirk makes its way to the woman’s lips, Root’s appreciation of beauty seems to be mutual.
Their little moment is interrupted when the man, more angry than drunk at being interrupted in his advances, makes to grab at Root’s arm. He only gets as far as grazing the sleeve of her leather jacket before yelping in pain, his wrist trapped in a vice-like grip. For once, Root doesn’t even feel disappointed that she doesn’t get to use her trusty stungun.
The woman’s close proximity, now that she has stood up from her seat with an arm extends over Root’s back to halt the man’s movement and her chest brushing lightly on Root’s other arm, is quite distracting. She grins at her and while Root can’t see what’s going on behind her back, she’s sure the woman has just tightens her grip because the man’s yelp gets even louder than before. He continues to whimper until the bartender comes, takes a second to assess the situation, then asks the man to leave. He is more than happy to comply, cradling his bruising wrist close to his chest while neither woman pays attention to his exit.
“Thanks for saving his ass,” the woman finally says after she’s back on her seat.
It isn’t arrogance, Root thinks as she runs her eyes over the woman’s bare arms and noting her biceps, now that she has the space to really look at her. The rest of her isn’t bad either. The black dress she is wearing isn’t too revealing, but shows off enough for Root to see her well defined muscles and understands how ugly it can be without her interference.
“It’s my pleasure.”
Normally, this is when Root finishes off her drink and ends her duty as a savior. Instead of walking away, she asks, “May I?” and gestures at the stool the man has vacated.
The woman hums her agreement, getting back to nurse her glass. Despite her obvious get-up, she isn’t there for any other reason than to drink, Root deduces as much from her relaxed posture and lack of interest in the people surrounding her. If she were, she would be in the famous club down the street instead of the hotel bar. Root can work with that.
“I’m Shaw.”
Root expects herself to make the next move and is pleasantly surprised with the introduction. Her mind stops between the sweet baker Hannah and the understanding psychologist Caroline. “You can call me Sam,” she offers back with a genuine smile and to her surprise, Shaw scoffs. She sends her a questioning look, only to get a halfhearted shrug in return so she drops it off to be assessed later on. “So, what is a beautiful woman like you doing here alone?”
Shaw rolls her eyes. It is the exact line the man used on her. “You can do better than that.”
“Maybe if I got more practice,” Root shoots back.
Not more than an hour later, Shaw is on her first beer, slowing down after her two shots of vodka. Root has long ago finished hers, which leaves her nicely buzzed. She isn’t even close to being tipsy, but her attempt at flirting is getting more and more ridiculous. It involves Schrödinger, which Shaw luckily recognizes or else it will be a bigger disaster than it already is.
“I’m a shape?”
“Yeah.” Root smirks, running her eyes over Shaw without shame. “And darlin’, you got a great shape,” she delivers the punch line, bits of her accent thickening the words.
Shaw shakes her head in amused exasperation. “You’re an awkward flirt.”
“Is it working?”
Instead of answering, Shaw downs the last of her beer and stands up. “You wanna get out of here?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
There is no accusation or even disappointment in Sam’s tone despite the light pout she is sporting. After their night of fun, she stirred up to find Shaw making her way out of her room. It was as awkward as it could ever been, but she made sure to give her her number before skipping her way to the bathroom. She hadn’t expected Shaw to stay around after, but it stung a little to find her note lying in the trashcan. Just when she thinks they really started to connect.
“I’m busy,” Shaw says. The truth, because she had Sam’s number memorized before she got rid of the note and she does intend to give her a call for another hookup. A fun night, or three, is something she does. “Are you stalking me?” she asks, because they met weeks ago at three states over. In her line of work, there is no such thing as coincidence.
Sam’s pout gets more pronounced. “Is he your boyfriend?” When Shaw looks confused, she adds, “Cole?”
Shaw rolls her eyes then. It’s just her luck to have Sam walks in at the end of her and Cole’s late lunch briefing, not enough for her to catch on anything they talked about except for Cole’s name. “He’s a coworker.”
That brings the smile back on Sam’s face. “Are you free tonight?”
“No.”
“Right now?”
The number has just arrived. Cole needs more time to track his digital footprints so Shaw isn’t scheduled for an active stakeout until later that night. “Yeah.”
If Sam asks her out on a date, Shaw will outright refuse. Something doesn’t sit right with this encounter—with Sam in general, who didn’t blink when she stripped Shaw off her gun, backup piece, a couple of hidden knives, and in fact got more aroused as she did so—that dread settles in Shaw’s guts. Like she is going to be made. It crawls down her spine and warms her stomach.
Sam slides her hotel room’s keycard over the table, stands up and walks out of the diner without looking back. Shaw should have tossed it to the trashcan, like she did her number, forgets about this meeting and moves on with her busy life. She’s experienced enough to know when to stop chasing the thrill. Minutes later, in a suite that isn’t less fancy than the last one, with fingers clawing at her back and her own moving inside Sam, she revels on her bad decision making as she sucks a bruise on Sam’s collarbone.
The first time they met and not hooking up, it is pure coincidence.
They have been doing their erratic meetings for over two years by then. Sam has an uncanny knack to find Shaw whenever she is in town. New York City, Washington DC, twice in Miami, one time in Houston and Dallas, and another in Anchorage. They don’t always cross path, but the chance is one out of ten, which is high but not high enough for Shaw to get suspicious.
Sam doesn’t ask what an active Marine is doing around the States. She has known Shaw is a Marine since their first night together when she found the bulge on Shaw’s thigh to be the holster housing her gun. Shaw made a meaningful glance at the tattoo on her inner right arm and she swore there was slight disappointment flashed on Sam’s face before a grin covered it. On the other hand, Shaw didn’t care that Sam seems to be always doing errands that pays for nice suites.
Shaw starts giving Sam a call after that one time with the zipties in New York City. It isn’t like she didn’t fuck that guy with nice ass in Johannesburg or did more than dinner with the woman in Belo Horizonte, but that was before the hot wax in Miami. Nowadays, Sam is the one and only constant hookup she has. For more than three times, and that is saying a lot coming from her.
What Sam doesn’t know is that every once in awhile, Shaw goes back to do her previous job. The ISA networks with the armed forces to keep the agents they recruited still registered as active soldiers under their previous forces. They need a cover that sticks and nothing is better than a job they actually did before. Thus several times a year, Shaw goes back to don her uniform and make public appearance.
It is the Blues this time, with ribbons instead of medals on the left chest and barracks cover tucked on her side. Shaw likes it because it stands out compared to the service uniform. She opts for the slack over the usual skirt, as it makes her seems taller than she really is. And Sam, who happens to wear a professional attire of skirt and suit jacket over her gray blouse with an arm holding a stack of files and heels that’s making her legs seem to go for miles, stops short when she sees Shaw.
From the way Sam’s eyeing Shaw, it’s obvious that she likes the uniform as well. Moreover, she likes the person wearing the uniform. “Marry me,” she says in a breathless way that is only half joking.
Shaw should have rolled her eyes, scoffed or scowled or just walked away. Instead, she asks back, “Will this stop?”
Sam falters for a moment, not expecting such response, but she makes a quick recovery. “Is that a yes?” she asks back, prolonging their banter in fear of not liking either option of the answer once it is out there. They have been having so much fun together that being turned down will break her heart, but being taken up somehow scares her. She can’t even tell whether Shaw wants whatever is going between them to stop or not—over the years she has learned that everything is possible when it comes to Sameen Shaw. “No.” It’s surer than anything, in spite of the fact that it’s declared out loud while they are standing in the middle of the hallway in Pentagon where ears and eyes are everywhere. “I don’t want this to stop.”
“Then yes,” Shaw says in relation to the first question. “Does tomorrow work for you?”
“I have to be in New York City in a couple hours,” is Sam’s automatic answer, still dumbfounded that she doesn’t feel the fear she has expected and that Shaw has said yes. She said yes. “Stay until the day after tomorrow. Can we reschedule?”
“No need. I’m going there as well. I’ll get us the license and Judicial Waiver. See you at the City Clerk at noon tomorrow?”
“Okay.” Sam is snapped out of her reverie when she notices her boss coming out of his private meeting. “I have to go.”
Shaw nods, walking away just as Heyes walks up to Sam.
“I heard congratulation is in order,” Heyes says, proffering a hand. Sam takes it and gives him a firm shake, smiling all the way. “Congratulations, Miss Groves.” Because right there, she is Samantha Groves to his Philip Heyes, instead of Root and John Greer. “Captain Shaw is quite a catch, isn’t she?”
Sam isn’t even surprised in the slightest that her employer knows about her sudden engagement or the identity of her soon-to-be wife just moments after the unplanned proposal happened. Of course Samaritan is always watching, it makes her feel giddy to know that her God cares about her.
“Thank you, sir. She really is.”
“An accomplished Marine.” Heyes hums. There is more in his mind, or else they would have started moving instead of lingering in the hallway, so Sam waits up with a dull yearn for it to be more proof of Samaritan’s love for her. “Samaritan is concerned.”
At that, Sam tilts her head slightly. “About Sameen?”
“Yes.” He begins walking, so Sam follows him like a good assistant she is. “Samaritan is concerned that your loyalty would waver. That one day you will have to choose.”
Both cold and warmth wash over her at the same time. “That would never happen.”
“And if it were?”
“I’ll eliminate her myself, sir.”
The answer comes a second too long to be convincing.
“Is the idea of living with me that awful that you went and got engaged with a stranger instead?”
Since there is an alarming increase of domestic threats, the Activity is pulling their best operatives, Catalyst, that includes Indigo, back home to clean their own backyard. During the last debrief, Wilson had pretty much told Shaw and Cole to get a place together. What they do outside the jobs is none of the Activity’s business, but it is common for work partners to be more. It is even encouraged to get together, no matter how fake it is. Anything to create an airtight covers for the operatives.
Sam’s unexpected proposal works well into Shaw’s plan, but obviously not for Cole. Shaw stares at her partner, ignoring his dramatic pout but contemplating the slight bitterness in his words. She isn’t so good at pretending to be someone else, but she’d like to think that she’s pretty decent at reading people—just not her own partner, apparently. Because the forced nonchalance and the way his eyes hide from hers are telling a different story that has her cursing in her mind.
“She’s not a stranger,” Shaw says, blunt and clear. They are adults and she isn’t going to baby his feelings, not when he never makes it obvious until it’s too late and she’s marrying someone else for real. “We’ve met, several times.”
That makes Cole furrows his brows. “You’re marrying your booty call?” His snickers filled with disbelief and only a tinge of bitterness this time. “Wait. ‘Several times’? More than your three nights rule?”
“It’s not always at nights,” Shaw mutters, rolling her eyes. So she hooks up with a beautiful, intriguing woman for more than three times over the past two years and now they are engaged, it’s not a big deal. “But yeah. Can we go back to my request for you to be a witness or should I ask Wilson instead?”
Cole snorts, knowing that it’s an empty threat and that Shaw needs him to fill the online request for marriage license anyway. “Hersh will be delighted to walk you down the aisle, if it’s that kind of wedding, but of course. I’ll be honored to be your best man,” he says with more sincerity than he starts off.
“Witness.”
“Same difference.” He waves it off, using his other hand to open his laptop and brings it to life with a press of a finger. “What’s her name?”
Shaw knows where this is going, but concedes with little reluctance. “Samantha Groves.”
It evokes a goddamn giggle from Cole, even as he types down the name. “That gonna make both of you into Sam Shaw.”
“She’s not taking my name.”
“Sam Groves then?”
“Neither of us is changing our names.”
“Not even to Shaw-Groves?”
“Shaw isn’t even my real name.”
Shaw ignores Cole’s wide eyes over the lid of his laptop, the bright screen makes his blues even brighter and she rolls hers because he knows that fact already. Changing name will be too much hassle and the whole Mrs. and Mrs. thing is confusing enough, they don’t need to throw in the fact that they go by the same nickname. Although Shaw can just see Sam having fun while introducing themselves to other people.
“Are you done vetting her?”
“I’m just looking for necessary information to fill the form.” His eyes are glued to the screen, but he can see from his peripheral that she’s glaring at him. Perhaps scrolling through Samantha’s old Myspace posts while reviving her Six Degrees profile are a bit too intrusive. “How can you hooked up with Mr. Heyes’ assistant out of all people...”
“Who?”
“Philip Heyes? Senior advisor and director of special projects.” Cole spins his laptop around for Shaw to see, shaking his head at her blank expression before turning it back to face him. “He’s the boss of our boss. Your fiancée has been his assistant for years.”
Although Sam did mention about working for the government when they kept running into each other around the capital, Shaw didn’t think she works at the very heart of the government. That sort of explains her random travelling and thus their coincidental meetings all over the country.
“You didn’t know this?”
“We don’t really talk.” Their mouths are too busy doing a more productive activity all the time.
“Of course you don’t.”
Shaw smirks and Cole groans from the unwanted images he inflicts on himself. “When will this wedding take place?” he asks.
“Noon tomorrow.”
“We’re supposed to be in Manhattan tomorrow.”
“She’s already there right now, till the day after tomorrow.”
“I guess you’re gonna need a Judicial Waiver to skip the waiting period.” When Shaw nods, Cole shakes his head in fond exasperation. “Fitting in a wedding during jobs. No wonder you want to marry her.”
Shaw only grins back at him.
It is like any other day. Shaw and Cole walk up into the Office of the City Clerk and wait for their turn, Cole already registered them online the day before. Not much longer after they sit down outside the office, Sam shows up with her boss.
Cole isn’t even surprised, having unearthed every bit of the woman’s past to know that her mother passed away about twelve years ago and her father is never in the picture and that she’s married to her job that there isn’t really any friend—Heyes’ blonde bodyguard named Martine is more of an ex than a friend, according to Facebook. Introductions are made and before brief pleasantries can be exchanged, they are called in.
With the Judicial Waiver, the marriage officiant is able to hold the ceremony straight after they get the license. Everyone has their turn filling and signing the paperwork. Only one witness is required, but the brides wordlessly agree that it’s only fair for each of them to have their own.
There is no sweet vow or exclamation of undying love, but there is a ring, from Shaw to Sam. A simple black wedding band that Cole suspects as titanium, being one of the strongest and most durable metal on earth and knowing his partner preference in practicality and effectiveness even in a gesture that’s supposed to be romantic. Still, it’s pretty sweet of her and he can’t help but nudge on her side and gives her a shit-eating toothy grin when she rolls her eyes at him.
The brides don’t kiss after the officiant declares them wife and wife. But Sam surprises them all when she takes out a small jar of honey from her suit pocket, dips her pinky in the sticky liquid and offers it to her now legally-wedded wife. Cole never sees his partner grinning so wide at something that’s not food, although she most probably has eaten Sam out too. He exchanges a confused look with Heyes while they watch Shaw holds on Sam’s hand as she sucks clean the dripping honey and tells her something in Farsi afterward.
(Later on, Google informs Cole that it is a part of Persian wedding ceremony and he might have some leftover regret for not acting on his feelings sooner, but he also starts to really like this Samantha.)
Sam leans closer to Shaw to whisper something in her ear while pressing a key on her palm. After a lingering peck on Shaw’s cheek and an unsuccessful wink, they part ways. Shaw has a number to neutralize and Sam’s accompanying her boss to a lunch meeting with a Congressman.
On the next Saturday night, Shaw adjusts the strap of her duffle bag on her shoulder, staring at the building standing in front of her as though it’s surreal. She did her own homework on Sam after the fourth time they met and this isn’t the apartment her name is on the lease of. That is a nice, albeit small, studio apartment downtown Washington with a sky-high rent. Shaw can say for sure because she has been there before, although she didn’t invite herself in.
This is a two-level colonial style condo in Silver Spring, just six miles away from Washington. Hardwood floor in the entire main level spans to the gourmet kitchen. The floor-to-ceiling windows lining the room provide abundance of natural light. There are three bedrooms and two bathrooms in total. The master bedroom is taking up over half of the second floor with its own en-suite bathroom, with a shower and soaking tub, and large walk-in closet. The other half of the space opens up to a deck connected with a staircase to the backyard.
Shaw has studied the blueprint of the place that Cole sent her on her wedding day. After all, he was the one who informed her of Sam’s recent property purchase, mere hours after the proposal happened. Now, standing in front of the building that Sam deliberately registered under their names, she contemplates whether she should use the key Sam gave her or knock the door or pick the lock. The decision is taken off her hands when she feels Sam’s presence behind her, long before she pressed herself to her back with the duffle bag trapped between their bodies.
“Would you like me to carry you across the threshold?” asks Sam, hand warm on Shaw’s hip. Her lips brush the side of Shaw’s head as she says, “It’s customary to do that for the bride.”
Shaw snorts a laugh. If either of them is carrying the other, it should be her. In fact, she did that before and Sam sent her a picture of the persistent bruise it left on her tailbone days after. Sam reaches around Shaw to unlock and push the door open. The motion-sensor picks up the new movement and light floods the hallway.
“How about a tour?”
Shaking her head lightly, Shaw declines the offer. “I’ll look around tomorrow.” The truth is her ears are still ringing from a too-close encounter with a grenade, her back is aching, and she doesn’t know what to do in this uncharted water. “Can use a drink right now.”
Sam is more than happy to fulfill the request. She tugs at the duffle bag until Shaw relinquishes it and gives her an exaggerated frown of disapproval when she realizes it weights almost nothing. Shaw half-shrugs, never one to own much because she is too busy saving the world, and let Sam guide her deeper into the house—their house—with the hand that is still grasping her hip.
The interior is exactly like the pictures the realtor posted in their site. The additional touch is few and far in-between. An arrangement of fresh orchids sits in a vase on a table by the hallway, some bright-colored contemporary arts hanging on the wall, and Persian rugs under the coffee table that surely cost a fortune. Unlike Shaw, Sam has several days ahead to move her stuffs, but it seems like she doesn’t have many personal items either. It feels much like Shaw’s old place, just a lot more expensive.
Sam steers her to sit on the couch in the living area, lowering the duffle bag into an armchair nearby before she skips to the liquor cabinet. She comes back with two glasses filled almost halfway with amber liquid. Whiskey, Shaw finds out after a sip, and a good one too. Everything about the house is good—too good, like Sam is trying hard to sell this whole white picket fence thing to Shaw.
“I’m not gonna ask you to live in the base,” Shaw says matter-of-factly after getting a taste of her drink. Her cover as combat instructor provides her with reason for her frequent trips all over the globe, but even if it has been real, the last thing she wants is to drag Sam everywhere she goes. She has enough instability growing up as military kid. “You have your job here.”
Sam’s smile is one of indulgence, but nonetheless sincere. “I know, sweetie.” She hesitates for a moment, like she wants to hold Shaw’s hand and intertwine their fingers together but ends up patting her knee instead. “I just think it’ll be nice for you to have a place to come home to.”
Something under Shaw’s ribcage twinges, but it’s gone as fast as she blinks. She should check for bruises later.
Never once in life does Root envision herself being someone’s wife, let alone a Marine’s wife, yet now she is. To her surprise, she actually likes it. The fun doesn’t stop with Shaw. They still meet each other away from their home. With Samaritan protecting her field activities, she doesn’t need to assume different identities like she used to, but she is elated to resume doing so for her wife. If the way Shaw’s excitement in undoing her is any indication, she enjoys their roleplaying as much as Root likes dressing up.
The possibilities of running into her wife at random states used to keep Root on her toes. However, after the fourth time they missed each other in San Diego, she concedes and starts texting Shaw about her planned travelling. Not all the time, but it isn’t like she travels a lot in the first place. Samaritan doesn’t need her to, since it has assets everywhere. Most of the time she’s either Philip Heyes’ assistant or John Greer’s right-hand woman, spending her time by his side overseeing the more exciting operations across the world while messing up Lambert and ignoring Martine’s glares. It’s good enough for her, especially now that she has a very fun partner to (sometimes) come home to.
Being married is pretty much like being single, except for the black band on her finger and the total thirty days in a year when Shaw has her time off. Being Shaw’s wife in that time is actually the one she has to adapt to.
The first night they actually sleep together, Root ends up with bleeding nose and bruised eye and Shaw discovering another kink of hers. She isn’t a cuddly sleeper, so she’s relieved to find that Shaw isn’t either. She is pretty sure she has a palm resting on Shaw’s stomach before falling asleep. Sometime after midnight, she doesn’t feel the warmth of another body next to her, confirms it when her hand slips through cool sheet and sees the rumpled cover. She rolls over to Shaw’s side and gets up to search for her missing wife—only to step on a leg, stumble forward with a surprised shriek, and fall face first.
Somehow Shaw has gotten out of the bed and is sleeping on the floor. As if falling face first isn’t enough, Shaw’s training kicks in to react to the ‘attack’. She grips Root’s ankle, drags her back and straddles her with a hand squeezing her neck and the other pressing down her shoulder. There is blood trickling down Root’s nose and she claws at the hand on her neck. Shaw blinks, realizing who she has pinned down and starts to back off, but Root grips on her wrist and moans, hips bucking up. The little surprise that spills over Shaw’s face turns into a smirk and she squeezes.
So for thirty days a year, in which half is around Christmas or Thanksgiving, Root dons her skirt and suit blazer to work her cover job as Philip Heyes’ assistant, cooks dinner for two, has mind-blowing sex, and sleeps on the floor with Shaw.
On the second year of their marriage, and what a wild year it has been, Root comes home from doing actual work, having relieved herself of the heels that were killing her feet and is shedding the suit jacket. She just walks into her home office when she notices the additional, quite huge appliances in the room. Backtracking to the door, she calls down the hallway.
“Sweetie, why do we need another fridge? And in my workspace?” she asks, even though she gets that it will look more out of place in Shaw’s workout room.
Shaw emerges moments later, skipping down the stairs with her hair still a bit damp and mused from the towel. She’s wearing a pair of boyshorts and camisole, even though the robes are hanging on the bathroom door. Root doesn’t mind—never—but she did ask once. The answer has something to do with forward operating base not having single-sex shower, but by then she was too preoccupied with taking off what was on Shaw to even bother with anything else.
Shaw is grinning, quirking a brow at Root’s glazed look as she passes her. Root can smell her own apple-scented shampoo and shower gel on her wife and it’s enough to make her follow her back into their home office.
“It’s not that kind of fridge.”
Root, stopping as Shaw rounds the desk that housed her state-of-the-art computer, furrows her brows. Before she can ask what her wife meant by that, the double door of the fridge is tugged open and what’s inside has Root’s breath hitched in her throat. Handguns and sniper rifles of different sizes and shapes, ammos that will last a good fight or two, grenades, blocks of C4, night vision goggles, a full-face mask, and God knows what else. She must have that stupid dazed look on, eyes wide and unseeing and lips parted in silent gawk—just like the first time she saw Shaw with the strap-on between her legs—because when Shaw shuts the door and turns to face her, she is frowning.
“Shit,” Shaw mutters when realization hits her. “I should have asked you first. This amount of weapons is—”
Root would have jumped and slid over the desk if not for her skirt and beloved gadgets on it. Instead, she power-walks around it to crowd her wife against the fridge. The shiny metal surface of its doors is cold under her palm. Shaw must have felt that as well, judging from her sharp inhale when her back hit the fridge, but her hands find Root’s waist as hungry lips crash against her own. In the end, after confirming its sturdiness, the fridge stays.
On the third year of their marriage, Root arranges to take her own time off whenever Shaw has hers. The skirt and suit are replaced with Shaw’s olive-green Marines-issued undershirt and a pair of lingerie. She spends the day distracting Shaw from doing her physical training and excessive cleaning. It feels like honeymoon every time.
Samaritan isn’t happy.
Samaritan is perfect. Rational. Beautiful. By design. Root is humbled to know its existence, forever honored to serve under its guidance, and awed to see the change it’s making in reshaping this rotten world—but she has long ago disillusioned herself from being special. She’s just one asset among thousands. Being Greer’s right-hand is the closest she will ever get to witness Samaritan’s raw power. So when her God speaks to her directly, years after she joined Decima, it renders her close to tears. It is a special mission and Samaritan believes she’s the only one capable to carry it out.
Eliminate ISA’s Catalyst Indigo
Samaritan is straightforward, always. No games, no riddle. Basic information and current whereabouts hand over on silver platter. The first and last time Root was put on a test is at recruitment, which she passed with flying colors. To be honest, she quite likes this sudden change of pace because she used to do her due diligence during her time as private contractor. It keeps her sharp and the job itself more fun, not that it will change the result any other way.
Finding out that Indigo is a two-man clean-up team is easy. The janitors, Root sneers, pitying these morons who work for a God yet never knowing its great existence. The ISA, however, is smart enough to keep its agents’ identities under so many layers, but she isn’t a hacker for nothing.
After following trails and going through the depth of The Agency, Root figures that their agents are hiding in plain sight. They simply maintain their previous positions in the armed forces. She then realizes that their current IDs contain their old ones. After trying with the Air Force and the Army, she gets the hit with the Navy database. Two profiles come up on her screen, two familiar faces staring back at her, and her world jerks to a rude stop.
“Is there a problem, Root?”
Root almost forgets about Greer and that it is only the two of them left in the headquarter, surrounded by Samaritan. “No. No, sir.”
Greer peers at the screen, as if he doesn’t already know who Indigo team is. “There is something Samaritan would like me to warn you, about Indigo-Five-Alpha,” he says in utter calmness.
Root nods, thoughtlessly. Indigo-Five-Alpha and Sameen Shaw—her wife—exist as different persons in her mind. That is saying how good Shaw is at this game of secret agents and Root wants it to stay that way. So she can do her job and then afterward, mourn for her dead wife, separately. She’s good at compartmentalizing.
“It never gets into any official record, no professional diagnosis has ever been made, but the operative diagnosed herself with axis II personality disorder. Samaritan inclines to agree.”
The personality disorder doesn’t even surprise Root. She’s noted many times through the years that Shaw isn’t just stoic like the rest of the soldiers created in the military factories. She expects PTSD episodes that never comes whenever Shaw gets home with new scars decorating her body—round shaped or jagged lines, sometimes pinkish but never raw; stiff fingers or wrists or shoulders that used to be broken or sprained; a patch of pale skin that was burned; new dental works and too many fading bruises.
Shaw shrugs them off, citing rough training sessions at work, but Root knows torture marks when she sees one and she seethes, ready to tear apart whoever that dared to scar her beautiful girl, if only Shaw would confide in her. If Shaw knows that she knows, she doesn’t say a thing, doesn’t even flinch when Root presses on the too-new scars just to elicit a reaction from her. More often than not, Root thinks Shaw won’t feel anything if she were to suddenly die and something in her chest weighs down like love.
“Technically, she’s a sociopath,” Root says in a rush of exhale. “Incapable of caring for others.”
Greer smiles, an odd expression on his face. It seems hard, pulling all the lines around his mouth and eyes. Root returns it with a brief one of her own before he leaves her alone with her thoughts. She hates Greer for the things he didn’t say. It will be a lot easier for her if he has stated she’s a sociopath, she won’t blink when she kills you than for her to reach such conclusion by herself about Shaw, who can’t no longer be just Indigo-Five-Alpha in her mind.
Everyone has secrets, Root understands. She does too, but not this. Not Shaw being a part of an obscure unit that does black-ops so dark technically they don’t exist. Not Shaw being a government’s assassin who is dumb enough to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong. It doesn’t add up. Shaw is a good Marine, Greer has said so himself and Samaritan knew. Samaritan has known all along and now it wants her dead.
For the first time since Root works for her God, she wonders: why?