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She could sense a presence in the dark, someone lurking, prowling at the foot of the bed.
Her ears pricked and listened carefully; making up for the lack of a visual. She could hear footsteps, breathing. She recognised the sound.
“Root?”
She stretched an arm out to turn on the lamp, her body wincing slightly at the sudden movement on drugged and achy limbs. The wires of her IV had gotten tangled in her sleep and she fell back to the pillow, exhausted, and immensely done with hospitals.
“Hey sweetie,” Root grinned, deer caught in the headlights but with a Cheshire cat smile, “I came to see if you were okay.”
“I’m fine. I was asleep,” Shaw scowled, propping herself up and inhaling sharply when a muscle in her arm resonated with pain. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“I snuck in. The night-guards were… distracted.”
Shaw shakes her head, regretting the motion almost instantly. As much as being Samaritan’s prisoner of War had sucked, the endless amount of drugs had kept her fuzzy and out of touch with her body. Now, in a real hospital, with real medical staff, she was supposed to be recovering but the painkillers were in no way strong enough to fight the agony that existed in every one of her limbs.
“They had to be, you would be an awful burglar.”
“I would be a brilliant burglar; I’m agile, discrete, trained in breaking into high-security government buildings,” Root protested with a smile, sitting down on a small space by Shaw’s feet.
“Agile maybe, discrete you are not,” Shaw stated. A small part of her wanted to ask Root to come closer; she seemed so far away despite only being at the end of the bed. She quickly repressed the thought, blaming it on the drugs- which drugs, it didn’t matter; Samaritans, the hospitals, either could be held responsible for her temporary lapse in Shaw-ness. She liked her personal space. She kept at a professional distance from people at all times, Root was close enough.
Except that she wasn’t.
Root huffed, pouting like a child who had been withheld a cookie. Shaw rolled her eyes.
“I thought we could catch up,” Root said, “Just a cou-“
“If you say a couple of gals I will punch you,” Shaw warned. In her last day with Root before the shit-show of being held captive, Root had used that line on her twice and after the months of torture and vivid, drug-induced hallucinations Shaw had found herself clinging to those words; clinging to Root in any way she could. A desperate grasp on reality, a tenuous hold of what was good with the world.
Root’s grin emerged again, she laughed and it resonated in her eyes.
“So we can catch up?”
“You saw me…” Shaw looked over at the analogue clock on the wall; groaning when she read the hour, “five hours ago. We couldn’t have caught up then? In visiting hours? The time when people are awake?”
“You’re awake now, besides, Harold and Reese were there; we couldn’t talk properly.”
Properly? Shaw couldn’t even guess what that was supposed to mean. Was this going to be their big talk? The talk about them? The talk about that kiss? The talk about whatever had existed between them since Veronica Sinclair and a hot iron?
Couldn’t it wait for a time when Shaw wasn’t in hospital?
A time when she didn’t hurt all over.
A time when she actually knew what she thought?
She was still trying to pick apart what was real and what was not after the cocktail of drugs provided by Samaritan, but even with a clear head she doubted she would know what to say to Root, or what her thoughts were regarding Root.
Did she like her? Sometimes.
Did she find her attractive? Of course.
Did they have a relationship? They’d fucked. They’d flirted. They’d kissed. But a relationship? God knows.
Did she want a relationship with Root?
Could she ever have a relationship with Root?
Could they have a real relationship like other people did? Never.
“I’m glad you’re home Sameen.”
Root’s voice was quiet, soft like a gentle caress; “I knew you’d come home.”
“I had to. There’s a war to be won right?” Shaw avoided emotion. She chose responsibility over her heart. It’s why she was so good at her job. But there was a lump in her throat, a huge elastic-band-ball of repressed feeling. I had to. I missed you. I had to. We have something. I had to. We’re good together. I had to. I want to try this.
Root blew air through her nose, a poor attempt at a laugh. She smiled briefly, the wrong kind of smile; the fake kind.
“I had to come back for you,” Shaw said, her voice barely a whisper. “And the dog.”
This earned a real laugh.
“Bear misses you. Harold wouldn’t let me take him here.”
“When has Harold ever stopped you?”
“Maybe I wanted to have you for myself, just for a little while.”
Shaw felt her lips curve into a smile.
“Just a couple of gals,” Root added, the lamp light sparkling in her eyes. Taking a break from work to catch up.
They sat in companionable silence for a moment before Shaw spoke.
“Thank you.”
Root looked at her, perplexed.
“For not giving up on me. Harold told me what you did.”
“I had to find you.”
“You’re insane.”
Root smirked, “You knew that.”
“You were reckless, stupid. You could have gotten yourself killed,” Shaw exclaimed. What would I have done if I came back and you weren’t there?
“We found you didn’t we?”
“And you killed Martine.”
“I never liked her much anyway.”
“She was a bitch,” Shaw agreed. “Took too much pleasure in finding out weak-spots.”
“I thought you didn’t have any?”
“I didn’t,” Shaw shrugged. She hadn’t. Not until…
“So what did she use then?” Root asked, “What did she use to break the great Sameen Shaw?”
“You.”
Root’s delight in the answer was evident for only a second before it gave way to sadness.
“I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner.”
“You found me didn’t you? We’re alive. The Machine’s in a suitcase, but we’re alive.”
“We’re rebuilding her; Harold and I. He doesn’t appreciate my help much.”
Shaw scoffed; Root and Finch had very different ideas about The Machine. They had very different ideas about the world in general. Collaboration was not something Shaw could see as going well.
“She told me to stop looking for you,” Root said mournfully.
“So you almost threw yourself off of a building.”
Root’s head snapped up and she gave Shaw a questioning look.
“Finch told me.”
“He told me to stop too.”
Shaw sat in silence, watching the renegade before her. A woman who was so blasé about her own life, but so determined to save hers.
“I couldn’t lose you.”
Root was impulsive.
Root fought on a side that was solely her own; she fought for what she believed in. Regardless.
Root had risked her own life, risked her treasured link with The Machine, all to save Shaw.
Root was insane. But she meant well.
Shaw could tell her that she should have listened to Finch, listened to the Machine. But then she wouldn’t be here in this hospital room now. She could tell her that she shouldn’t have been so reckless, but she was Root, they were practically synonymous, and besides, Shaw knew she would have done exactly the same in Root’s situation.
Thank you seemed a mute point.
I’m sorry seemed meaningless.
Shaw stretched her arm out and placed a hand on Root’s knee, the only thing she could reach.
I’m not lost. I’m here.
Root smiled. Placed her hand down on top of Shaw’s.
The chipped black nail-polish Shaw was so used to seeing was gone, replaced with the pink hues of Root’s skin.
“I didn’t feel like repainting them,” Root shrugged, catching Shaw’s gaze.
Shaw silently interlaced her fingers with Root’s; an oddly intimate gesture that she had never initiated before, and never would again.
“The world must be about to end,” Shaw joked.
“It’s a good job we have you,” Root beamed, “Well, once you’re vertical.”
“Do you remember how to fight?” she asked, brushing her thumb over the side of Shaw’s palm.
“I remember lots of things,” Shaw said, pulling Root closer with a tug on her wrist.
“Like?” Root smirked, leaning over Shaw, her hair curtaining them both from the outside world.
“How to kick your ass,” Shaw stated with a smirk that rivalled Root’s.
Root laughed, and Shaw caught the sound on her lips, capturing Root’s mouth in a kiss.
“And how to get you to shut up.”