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I.
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“A fifteen billion dollar budget and CIA operatives are stuck with energy bars.”
With a dramatic sigh, Root closes the last cabinet in the kitchen and tosses the two scavenged Cliff bars (Black Cherry Almond and Chocolate Chip) onto the table in front of Shaw, who lets out a soft huff (but reaches for the Chocolate Chip nevertheless).
“And apples. And coffee. Better than a lot of places I’ve been stuck in.”
Root smiles, apparently pleased to have gotten any sort of response from Shaw at all, and steps a bit closer to lean her hip against the rim of the table. “I don’t know that I want that to be the standard we use for the condition of our safe houses. But I take your point.”
The Cliff bar in Shaw’s possession disappears in approximately two and a half bites; Root considers making a comment about Shaw’s mouth, or perhaps her voracity, but is distracted by her earpiece switching on, and the sound of the Machine’s voice in her ear. (It’s not something that will ever stop making her heart speed up, she doesn’t think, but this time, it results in a grin as well.)
“Well, looks like there’s no need for us to deny ourselves,” she says, once the Machine has delivered Her message. “A few friendly neighbors seem to have an excess of food that we might help ourselves to... if I could just have that lock pick back.”
Shaw’s reaction to this news is something of the opposite of Root’s, and she frowns and crosses her arms when Root slips a bit closer, palm out. “I thought we were supposed to stay put until the morning. You think I wouldn’t’ve left if I didn’t have to spend the next ten hours with you?”
“Don’t be silly, Sameen.” Root’s hand slips towards the front pocket of Shaw’s pants, and Shaw catches her wrist none too gently. Root only smiles, even as Shaw twists, ever so slightly. “She’s given me permission. Besides, don’t you want to make tonight as enjoyable as possible? Not that I think eating is necessarily the best way to spend our time. Unless we’re talking about eating…”
Shaw releases her almost violently, shoving Root’s hand away before pulling the lock pick out herself and tossing it on the table.
“Don’t. Just go. This is your dumb mission. What do I care if you screw it all up?”
“It’s our mission, Sameen. The Machine chose both of us.” Root grins – in a way that some might call maniac – and grabs the lock pick before backing away towards the door. “Be back soon, sweetie. Don’t miss me too much.”
---
Shaw does not, in fact, miss Root. At all.
But when the woman re-enters the safe house, looking as though she’s returned from a trip to the grocery store (reusable bags and all), there is a moment where Shaw feels something that is not annoyance. (It’s relief – fine – but only because the mission has not been derailed completely.) She also doesn’t shoot Root, though maybe she lowers her gun a bit more slowly than is necessary. Root, for her part, doesn’t appear to notice.
“I’m back,” she all but sings, sashaying over towards the small kitchenette. “And I found some fantastic stilton.” When Shaw does not react, she adds, “And port.”
“That might not be strong enough to deal with you for another… nine hours,” Shaw drawls.
Root grins crookedly and starts unloading her less-than-legally-procured supplies. Shaw makes no move to help her, and instead leans back in her chair to prop up her feet. Which is why when a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s is placed in front of her, she’s almost startled.
“That’s the best I could do,” Root says, smile now (annoyingly) smug. “No WhistlePig Rye in this particular apartment block, I’m afraid,” she adds, and that gets another reaction from Shaw, who twists her neck sharply to glare at Root with suspicion (and vows to check her own apartment for cameras and/or bugs).
“Whatever. It’ll get the job done.” She doesn’t wait for a glass, merely twists off the top and drinks from the bottle, then takes a moment to watch Root as she pulls out a pan and a couple bowls from the otherwise empty cabinets. And then continues to watch as Root starts to sort through the goods she had stolen. “I figured you for more of a Lean Cuisine type.”
“Oh, you been figuring me?” Root takes the time to turn away from the early stages of her meal preparation to smirk at Shaw. “That’s so sweet, Sameen! I didn’t know you cared.”
“I don’t,” she returns blandly. “I’m saying you’re going to screw this up. And that looks like decent beef. So if you make it tough or burn it, I might shoot you.”
Root’s soft puff of amusement is audible, so even when Shaw turns away from the woman to focus on her whiskey, she can’t quite fully block her out. Still, in a practically miraculous turn of events, Root remains mostly silent for the next thirty minutes or so, only occasionally murmuring to herself quietly enough that Shaw cannot make out the specifics (not that she cares).
The real surprise, however, comes when Root places a plate on the table in front of Shaw that contains what looks to be a perfectly passable burger. A burger that makes Shaw’s mouth water, just a little.
“Umami burger with port and stilton. No condiments necessary.”
“We’ll see,” Shaw says as she sits up – though she keeps her feet on the chair next to her (more out of spite than for her own comfort) – and then, without any preamble, takes a bit.
And dammit; it is good.
Root appears to know this immediately, watching Shaw as carefully as she is, because her smile grows until she’s showing teeth.
“Mmm, guess I’m making it out of this one alive, then?”
“Don’t be so sure. We’ve got a lot of time to go, Root,” Shaw grumbles through her second bite, already glancing at the counter to see how many patties Root made.
“Well then,” Root murmurs, stepping closer, her lips curled with innuendo. “Guess I’ll have to make sure you stay satisfied, then.”
---
Root, it turns out, made six burgers and has an impressive amount of endurance.
She makes it through the night just fine.
---
II.
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She’s out of the dress when she finally makes it back to her apartment, but despite the shower, she still smells a bit of smoke on her skin. It’s not something that would typically bother her, but when she opens the door and finds Root inside (hands up in expectation of the gun that would immediately be leveled at her), it’s just one more thing that reminds Shaw just how annoyed she is at Root.
“You leaked our location to Vigilance,” Shaw grumbles again, lowering her gun and stomping into her place. “And broke into my apartment. Again.”
“Does it count if it’s a different apartment?” Root asks, all innocence when she stands and saunters over to where Shaw is peering (and frowning) at the various safeguards that Root had apparently disabled with ease.
“Yes. Get out.”
“Shaw,” Root all but whines. “It was for a good cause; I saved Harry. And… I brought a peace offering.”
While she’d noticed the small bag in Root’s lap, she hadn’t paid it much mind (presumably Root wasn’t here to tase her again – simply to irritate her), but now, Shaw snatches the bag out of Root’s hand while ignoring the smug look on her face (as usual).
“I made it myself,” Root says, taking another step closer, until the toes of her boots are nearly touching Shaw’s. “No mayo.”
Shaw finishes unwrapping the sandwich and takes a bite without comment. It’s good – rare steak and an abundance of spices – and she feels some of her annoyance slip away. As though sensing the shift, Root leans in just a little bit more.
“You know, Sameen,” she purrs. “Gun smoke smells good on you.”
“Not a great reason to get me involved in a gun fight, Root.”
It’s hardly a full rebuke, so Shaw’s brow pinches slightly when Root – of her own volition – steps away.
“Please. I know you liked it.” She winks (or – tries to). “Enjoy the sandwich, Shaw.”
Shaw blinks. “You’re leaving?”
She doesn’t mean to sound affected (because she isn’t), but her moderate surprise tints her voice enough to make Root smile.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she grins. “I’ll be back soon. Next time I have to go, I might even bring you along.”
“Whatever,” Shaw grunts, taking another bite of her sandwich. “Only if you bring food.”
---
III.
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“I made sausage gumbo pot pie,” Root calls as she steps into the subway, brandishing a casserole dish overhead. “And it has a garlic bread crust,” she adds in a sing-song.
Bear is the first to come running (and, truth be told, the only one to come running) and Root rubs him behind the ears as a reward. (She also gives him a bit of sausage, while Harold’s back is still turned.)
“What’s the occasion, Miss Groves?”
“Or what was the occasion?” Reese asks, quirking a brow when he spies the half-empty dish that Root deposits on the end of the table furthest from Finch’s equipment.
“Destroying an extremely deadly filovirus,” Root drawls and John snatches away the hand that had been reaching for the one of the plastic forks lying in the dish. “Which can’t be transmitted through food, of course. Even if we hadn’t followed decontamination procedure to the letter.”
Reese still hesitates just a second longer before scooping a bit of the pot pie onto his fork and carefully sampling it.
“I did not realize you had culinary aptitude, Miss Groves,” Harold chimes in when John makes a sound of approval and digs in for another taste.
“Well, how else am I supposed to keep Shaw satisfied for an extended length of time?” A smirk slides across her face. “I mean, aside from…”
A sudden outbreak of coughing stops her short, and Finch, looking distressed, gives John a few pats on the back to help him through the minor choking fit. Root’s smirk only grows.
“Too much spice?” she asks innocently.
“That’s not a thing.”
All three turn towards the voice, while Bear once again runs towards the new arrival.
“Can’t handle—what—a little paprika, Reese?” Shaw continues, leaning down to give Bear a rubdown. “Thought you Army boys were supposed to be tough or something.”
John simply coughs again, which prompts a smug smile from Shaw and adds a saunter to her step as she moves closer. Root watches her approach with a look that she really should not be wearing in public. Or – at least not in front of Finch.
“Guess not. Maybe I better finish off whatever you’re…”
Shaw finally catches sight of the casserole dish and freezes. It’s enough of an irregularity that even Finch notices.
“Miss Shaw, are you –?”
“What the hell, Reese? That’s my food!”
Face pinched in anger, Shaw takes two large steps towards the casserole dish and pulls it off the desk. She only realizes that this might be a slightly over-the-top reaction when Finch and Reese stare at her in absolute bewilderment. She also only realizes that the reaction might mean something else entirely to Root when she stares at Shaw in absolute glee.
“Don’t mind Shaw, boys,” Root begins, expression sliding into something a bit more subdued (though the brightness in her eyes remains). “Apparently, she likes to keep a particular subset of my skills all to herself.”
“Root,” Shaw warns.
“Kind of sweet, isn’t it?” Root adds with a grin, completely ignoring Shaw’s glare (which is, admittedly, a bit less fierce that she would prefer due to the fact that she is cradling a casserole dish).
“I—uh—have a mission,” Reese grunts. “Enjoy the— your food?”
Shaw’s glare, once turned to Reese, however, appears to work just fine.
---
IV.
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“You’re an ass.”
It’s the first thing Shaw says to her as she steps into the subway, and Root takes it as a sign that Reese and Harold have cleared out for the night, just as she’d hoped.
“And you’re alive. Sorry, Sameen, but that’s an easy trade, no matter how angry you are.”
The silence when Shaw doesn’t respond is gaping; each footstep Root takes towards her seems to echo off the walls. She stops once the tension in Shaw’s shoulders is visible: about five feet from where the woman stands, arms crossed.
“I brought food,” Root offers, smiling knowing as she lifts the foil tray that Shaw had, undoubtedly, already seen. “Freshly made.”
It’s clear that Shaw is not especially happy with her own reaction, namely the way she shifts slightly forward and takes in an almost audible breath of the air that carries with it a hint of the taste of tender pork and lime and chili pepper.
“Pork carnitas,” Root coos, taking another step closer, holding Shaw’s gaze.
Shaw’s fingers – resting on her bicep – twitch. Her lips press together.
“I used a slow cooker,” Root adds, lips curled and voice low.
Shaw nearly growls, snatching the tray out of Root’s hands before stomping over to the bench, sitting down, and ripping off the cover.
“You’re still an ass.”
Root doesn’t seem to mind, following Shaw over to the bench and sitting down without losing any height on her crooked smile. She even – once Shaw is distracted by trying to fit far more meat into a tortilla than is physically possible – slips an arm behind her along the back of the bench. And surprisingly, Shaw does not move away, which turns Root’s lopsided expression into something Shaw would have found far too soft had she not been otherwise occupied.
“You’ll forgive me eventually, sweetie. And you won’t be down here forever.”
“That right? You and the Machine got a plan for me? Because no matter how many sandwiches you or Finch bring me, I’m not staying down here while the rest of you take out Samaritan.”
“Because you worry about me?” Root asks, leaning in with a cheeky grin.
Shaw actually lifts her eyes from her meal, but only to stare at Root blankly. And then take a very deliberate bite of her carnitas, if only to be able to respond with her mouth full. (She does not seem to realize that Root finds this as charming as everything else that Shaw does.)
“No. Because I want to shoot that psycho blonde.”
With a shrug, Root nods in agreement. “Understandable. But patience, Sameen. Patience and… a little faith.”
“Neither of those are really my thing, Root.”
“Maybe not,” Root tilts her chin up in thought, then smiles down rather smugly at Shaw. “But I can think of a few things that might be. Once you finish up with your dinner.”
It’s not immediate, but after a few more bites, Shaw takes the bait. “Like what?”
“Well, you know how much Harry doesn’t like it when we eat at his desk?”
Shaw nods and Root’s smile grows.
“Imagine how much he wouldn’t like it if we used it for… potentially messier things?”
For the second time since she’d been brought down to the subway, Shaw smiles.
---
V.
---
The safe house is silent in a way that feels wrong.
Root watches Shaw as she takes apart and reassembles her handgun once. And then once again. But when Shaw begins the same task for the third time, Root stands and ventures into the kitchen, mind running through her options.
(She is unable to resist running a hand along Shaw’s back on the way there. Because she can.)
An hour later, Shaw has moved on to the .50 caliber, hands steady as she reinstalls the stud and pushes the bolt back into place; Root observes her for another several moments, leaning up against the frame of the door and taking in Shaw’s unflinching profile.
“Are you going to keep staring or are we actually going to do something with this thing?”
“Neither, for now.” Root pushes off the wall. “But I thought you might like to eat.”
Shaw’s hands freeze over the gun, but only for a second; she’s back to her reassembly before Root can blink twice.
“Eat what? A Beatrice Lillie?” She smiles in a way that makes Root’s heart twist. “They tried that.”
“No, Sameen,” Root murmurs, placing a hand on her back once again. “Something new.”
She can feel the breath that Shaw takes and the play of her muscles when she moves to stand, so it’s with regret that Root lets her hand drop to step out of the way and lead Shaw to the small table in the kitchen, where a bowl and spoon are already waiting.
“Soup?” Shaw questions, lips twitching downwards. “I told you they already tried torture, Root.”
“Funny.” It’s not, of course, but it’s the easiest thing to say. It also gets the barest hint of a smirk from Shaw, so maybe it’s worth it. “But no. It’s stew.”
“What kind of stew?” Shaw asks, almost suspicious as she takes a seat.
“The best kind. Hungarian goulash.”
Shaw does not object again, instead sitting back in her seat, twirling her spoon through her fingers while Root ladles out a generous helping (with an amount of beef worthy of Shaw).
“See? Not soup,” Root says with a self-satisfied smile, then reaches out to brush a strand of hair from Shaw’s face, who rolls her eyes, but seems to lean forward mostly to get at the goulash (rather than just to get away from Root).
She gets a grunt of agreement, which is more than enough for Root, who watches Shaw for another few moments with a pleased smile before picking the pot back up and moving to return it to a low heat (for when Shaw undoubtedly wants more).
“Don’t you want any?”
Goulash is new for them, but so is this. Root’s eyes are wide when she spins back around, but Shaw’s gaze remains on her bowl as she continues to spoon the stew into her mouth without interruption.
It’s probably for the best.
Because when Root sits down from across Shaw and fills a bowl for herself, her eyes are already shining.
(Anything more might have been too much.)
---
(I.)
---
“Shaw?” Root coughs weakly: a pitiful half-cough that morphs into a full, body-wracking one.
There’s no response.
Even when the Machine tries to help – calling Shaw’s phone line – silence is Root’s only answer.
She attempts to shift onto her knees, but finds herself unable to manage even that; sweat decorates her brow and her throat feels dry after the feeble attempt.
“Sameen?” she tries again. “I’m – ”
The door to her room swings open, revealing a very unamused, compact, Persian sociopath.
“—Fine,” she interrupts flatly. “Because you have a mild case of the flu. So you’re fine.”
Root wraps her blankets around herself and frowns. “I’m cold, though. Do you know where my bunny slippers are?”
“No, Root,” Shaw grits. “I don’t.”
“… Can I borrow your sweatshirt, then?”
“Root, I swear to God,” Shaw grits out. “I’m leaving.”
This is not, as it turns out, an empty threat; Shaw is gone before Root has a chance to level any sort of puppy-eyed expression at her. (Admittedly, Bear had always had far more success than Root when it came to that particular move, but it’d been worth a try.) Still, Root does not hear her front door open either, so she doesn’t feel especially put out, especially when Shaw returns not five minutes later, this time carrying a small tray.
“Sit up,” she mutters. “And take this.”
Clearly bewildered, Root slowly scoots back enough to prop herself up on one of the pillows and reach for the tray, which Shaw shoves at her almost immediately.
“Shaw, is this… soup?”
“No,” Shaw scowls, almost physically recoiling. “It’s dizi.”
Root blinks, looking down at the two bowls on the tray in confusion. Uncharacteristically (since Samaritan’s defeat, at least), the Machine does not offer her any explanation.
“It’s broth. And mashed meat. Eat the soup first. Then the meat.”
Shaw crosses her arms as though daring Root to ask any further questions.
So Root, of course, does.
“Did you make this?” There’s a smile spreading across her face that, while clearly showcasing a bit of exhaustion, has that customary Root smugness in there as well. “For me?”
“Well,” Shaw begins blandly. “This is the best kind of stew. Someone had to show you that you were wrong.”
“And you just happened to need to prove me wrong while I was sick?”
That smile is growing ever smugger by the minute, and Shaw busies herself with withdrawing a spoon and hastily ripped paper towel from her back pocket.
“Yeah, well, you’re even more insufferable than usual like this,” she grunts, shoving the cutlery and napkin at Root. “If you don’t get better soon, I’ll probably shoot you.”
Even another coughing fit barely wipes the smile off of Root’s face.
“So this is the magical cure for the flu, Sameen?”
“No,” Shaw scowls, but then visually hesitates, expression turning neutral. “But it always made me feel better. When I was a kid. And my mom made it.”
For once, Root is left without a quip, which apparently isn’t any less annoying to Shaw than the alternative, who huffs a bit and hunches her shoulders when she notices the abundance of affection in Root’s expression.
“Just eat it, alright? I have to go shoot some people.”
“You’re not going to have any?” Root sneezes once, loudly, and Shaw takes a small step back.
“No, I’ll have some later.”
Even through her sniffling, Root’s eyes light up. “So that means you’re coming back?”
Shaw shakes her head slowly, a small smile sneaking onto her face, then turns to head for the door.
“For the food, Root. Just for the food.”