Work Text:
Seconds pass before:
“Fine.”
She watches as Shaw lowers her gun, doesn’t breathe until it’s secured and Shaw is safe.
Shaw is safe and Shaw is here and it takes every ounce of self-control Root has to stay still when all she wants is to hug her again, to feel that she’s solid and present and alive.
Shaw isn’t the only one having a hard time believing that this is real.
“But we’re doing this my way.”
Shaw looks up at her and it’s a dare and promise all at once. There’s nothing Root won’t do for her, no way she won’t play it if she gets to keep Shaw here and safe and free.
Root shoves her own gun into the back of her pants. “Whatever you say, Sameen.”
She’s careful not to say too much, not to be too eager or too touchy or too emotional because that’s not what Shaw needs right now.
There will be time later, she thinks, to celebrate.
“Two things. One – we’re not going anywhere near the Machine. Two – we’re not going near any of the others. Not yet. Got it?”
Root nods.
“Good.”
Shaw stalks away, back towards the entrance to the park, and Root follows because like hell is she letting Shaw out of her sight right now. Or ever again, probably.
“Where to?”
“My apartment.”
Guilt washes over her.
“I’m sorry, Sameen,” she says, “Your landlord rented it out to someone else.”
There’s more to the story – she stopped paying Shaw’s rent, she stopped looking for her, she thought Shaw was dead – but she doesn’t tell it now. Shaw doesn’t need to know how badly she failed her. Not yet.
“Fine. Any suggestions?”
“I don’t know. The safe houses have been compromised.”
Shaw stops dead in her tracks. She lifts her hand to the back of her ear. There’s a story there, but Root doesn’t ask. Shaw will tell her, or she won’t, and Root will tear Samaritan apart regardless, microchip by microchip.
“What?”
They are in the middle of a city block, standing still while the rest of the world passes by. It’s late and not as crowded as this area usually is, but Root scans their surroundings anyway. Shaw’s cover is still burned and they’re standing here out in the open, like sitting ducks. That needs to change.
There’s an alleyway maybe 30 feet ahead of them. She grabs Shaw’s arm and pulls her along until they’re in the alley and out of sight. It’s dark and empty – nothing here but them, a dumpster, and the smell of piss.
“A couple of months ago. Samaritan raided the one on 35th first. We barely made it out in time.”
Shaw’s fingers keep stroking the back of her ear as she stares straight ahead, like she can’t see Root standing right in front of her.
“There’s one left that is still secure, as far as we can tell, but it’s currently occupied.”
Shaw starts shaking her head – small movements back and forth. Root steps closer, reaching for her, because Jesus this is painful, watching Shaw like this, and all she wants is to ground her in reality, to tell her that everything is okay for now.
Shaw takes a step backwards.
“You have to get away from me.”
Root lets her hand drop to her side but she doesn’t retreat.
“Sameen—“
“I led them to the safe houses, I’ll lead them to you, too. You have to go.”
A rat skitters out from under the dumpster and Shaw draws her gun.
Root has spent a lot of time imagining what it would be like if they got Shaw back, what Shaw might be like, but she hadn’t quite imagined this. Shaw skittish and vulnerable and afraid.
“Not going to happen.”
Shaw’s gun is still in her hand and Root does her best to push away the image of Shaw with her own gun to her head because they don’t have time for this now, she doesn’t have time to be horrified or worried or anything but present in this moment.
The gun goes back into the holster. Root breathes.
“I’m not putting you in danger, Root. I’m just not.”
Shaw is skittish and vulnerable, yes, but Shaw is also strong and protective and fiercely loyal, as constant in that as she’s always been. No ASI could ever rob Shaw of that, of her core code.
She remembers dreams where Shaw’s code was not so immutable, where she returned to them mangled and broken and nothing like herself. Dreams where Shaw showed up, side-by-side with Greer and took them all out, one by one, like they’d never mattered to her at all.
Without knowing what Greer was doing to Shaw, Root could only imagine what she would do in his position. Shaw is capable and deadly and Root would do everything in her power to recruit her, to turn her from a captive into an asset. The possibility of a Shaw loyal to Samaritan, whether by her own choice or by some kind of brainwashing, chilled Root to the bone.
But Shaw is constant in who she is, who she’s always been, even after Samaritan did its worst, and the relief Root feels is palpable.
“I’ve kidnapped you at least twice. Don’t think for a second that I’m not ready and willing to do it again.”
Shaw’s eyes run up and down her body, like she’s trying to figure out if she can take her, where she’s keeping her weapons, where her weak spots are.
It’s almost funny, she thinks, how willing they are to hurt each other to prevent anyone else from having the same opportunity.
“Let’s just get out of here. If you’ve got a tail, we’ll either shake them or we’ll shoot them. You know how good we are at that.”
Shaw’s lips twitch. “You’re insane.”
Root leans into Shaw’s space and grins. “It’s part of my charm.”
Shaw’s lip twitch turns into an actual smile. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head a little in what looks like disbelief, and for a second it almost feels like it did before all of this, before Samaritan.
But it’s not before Samaritan, it’s after, and they will be caught if they’re not careful.
“We should move, Sameen. At least find a spot on the shadow map.”
Shaw nods and they start to walk.
---
The hairs stand at the back of her neck. Shaw looks behind her. No one there but Root, following along behind her and grinning like an idiot.
This jumpiness is new and she doesn’t like it. The Marines, the ISA, they had taught her to be aware of her surroundings, to know the position of every potential threat. Observe, evaluate, act. But whatever this is now is different.
When they finally catch up to Samaritan, she’s going to personally rip Greer limb from wrinkly limb for throwing her off her game.
Shaw picks up her pace.
Root quickens behind her – close, but not on top of her the way Shaw might have expected. But how could she know what to expect anymore? She’s probably spent more time with Samaritan’s version of Root than the real one at this point.
But there was Root in the park with her gun pressed under her chin, safety off and finger on the trigger – and Jesus, that is an image that is going to stay with Shaw for a while – and it was exactly the kind of recklessness that has defined Root practically since Shaw met her.
Root’s heels clack against the sidewalk a couple of feet behind Shaw and she can’t quite shake the feeling that this time might be different, that this might be real.
The shadow map isn’t the same as she had remembered, more restrictive, and she wonders how much ground Samaritan has gained, how much closer it is to winning this whole thing. How much closer Root and Finch and the Machine are to losing.
“Turn right up here, Sameen. New traffic camera on that corner.”
She wonders how much she’s helped Samaritan. How much information she’s given it.
“Thanks.”
The safe houses have already been compromised because of her and there’s no telling what other damage she’s done.
Samaritan could have found them independently, could have tracked one of the team or whatever number-of-the-week ended up recovering there from rescue-related injuries, but she can’t make herself believe for a second that that’s what happened. How many times had Shaw run straight to the safe house after escaping from Greer? How many nights had she spent there with Root, fighting and fucking and everything in between? How many times had she collapsed in the bed or on the couch, feeling secure and at ease for the first time since the escape she fought so hard for?
It was her. It had to have been her.
“Stop. Wait ten seconds for the light to change.”
She should leave Root in the dust. Run and hide somewhere and keep her safe. But Root feels like Root, with her recklessness and her bad pickup lines and her worse timing, and Shaw knows she won’t be able to ditch her.
And there’s part of her – not an insignificant part – that doesn’t want to ditch her, that wants to keep Root with her in spite of the danger because Root makes her feel safe and what the fuck does that even mean?
Whatever, she’ll sort that shit out later.
Right now, the mission is to find somewhere to crash and to try not to die in the process.
They walk another two blocks, Root navigating from two steps behind – Turn left here, sweetie – before they come to a hotel. It’s a hole in the wall if Shaw’s ever seen one, but she’s probably slept in worse and Root says there aren’t any video cameras anywhere in the building so it’s probably the best they’re going to do.
A bell above the door chimes when they walk in, and a stout old lady comes out of the back room, smiling so wide that Shaw wants to punch her.
“Good evening, ladies. How can I help you?”
Shaw approaches the counter and Root comes to stand beside her.
“We need a room.”
The lady pokes at her keyboard.
“How many nights?”
Shaw hadn’t thought that far ahead. She’s been staying across town – another ratty motel that she paid for with the handfuls of cash she’d stolen from the wallets of the Samaritan operatives that she’d killed – but she wasn’t going to risk taking Root there in case this is another simulation, in case Samaritan is waiting for them.
Root answers the question.
“Just one night for now, thanks.”
More poking at the computer. Old lady needs a typing class.
“One or two beds?”
They speak at the same time.
“One.”
“Two.”
Root turns and looks at her, wide-eyed. Shaw shrugs because it’s no big deal and they’re definitely not going to talk about it because it’s just not a thing that needs to be talked about. She doesn’t think about it particularly hard either, it just seemed like the right answer to the question. Whatever.
(Root is lying in her bed, her bedding curled around her limbs, a lazy smile on her face. Shaw lies beside her, face down with one arm under her pillow. Root seems tired and happy and a little incredulous and for a second they just look at each other.
Root stays like that for a minute – lying next to Shaw and looking at her like she’s some fancy piece of computer shit or something – before sitting up, letting the sheet pool behind her, and reaching for her shirt.
The shirt is halfway over Root’s head when Shaw reaches out and grabs her elbow.
“Stay.”
Root tilts her head, raises an eyebrow. When Shaw doesn’t say anything, just shrugs in response, Root smiles at her like she can’t believe she exists.)
Shaw offers a strained smile to the old lady and repeats. “One bed is fine.
She does her best to push the memories, the simulations, from her mind. They’re not real – how many times has Samaritan put Root in her bed? – and they don’t matter.
Root gives the lady an alias – Kristen something, one Shaw’s never heard before – and some cash and they get an old-fashioned room key, metal and heavy and thoroughly non-electronic, along with instructions to their room on the eighth floor.
When they get to the elevator, Shaw’s finger hovers over the button for the their floor and she smirks.
“This thing had better work this time.”
Root chokes out a laugh, like it’s funny and like it hurts at the same time, and then flashes her a toothy grin that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t fancy another all-expenses paid vacation courtesy of our favorite all-seeing arch enemy?”
“I’ll pass.”
Shaw presses the button and the elevator begins to move. Slowly, but it moves.
Somewhere around the third floor, Shaw remembers that the last time she and Root were in an elevator together – a real one, not a simulation – she had kissed her, and she wonders how long it’s going to take for Root to bring it up.
Root always brings it up right after they’re reunited in the simulations. Always eager to get back to where they were, to pick up where they left off.
When Root opens her mouth to talk, Shaw braces herself.
“Bear is going to be really excited to see you.”
“What?”
“I mean, everybody is.” She pauses, her smile fading a little. “Eventually. When you’re ready to see them. But Bear in particular has waxed poetic about how much he misses his favorite treat-giver-slash-ball-thrower.”
Shaw rolls her eyes and this feels good, it feels like it did before. “What are you now, the dog whisperer? Talking to computers wasn’t enough?”
“I have many skills, Sameen.”
Shaw tries not to smile. The elevator dings.
“Guess this is us.”
---
For as many times as she’s imagined it, Shaw’s return is nothing like Root thought it would be. There are fewer explosions, for one thing, and everything is a little quieter, a little more awkward than she would have expected.
Root turns off the tap in the hotel kitchenette and brings the glass of water over to Shaw, who sits on the edge of the bed, ramrod straight, like she’s ready to pounce, to shoot, to fight at any given second.
“Here.”
Shaw looks up at her, unreadable, and takes the cup. “Thanks.”
The room is small and relatively quiet, the rattle of the AC unit fading into the background as the moments pass. There’s the kitchenette – a sink, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge – a desk with a chair, and a Queen-sized bed, all crammed on top of each other like everything else in New York. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll do for now, until Shaw feels comfortable coming home.
Root wonders when she started thinking of the subway – something so inherently transient – as home.
She looks at Shaw and wonders if it’s the people that feel like home and not the place.
Shaw’s hair is longer than Root remembers, a little frayed at the edges, and there are circles under her eyes, like she hasn’t slept in a week, but there aren’t any obvious signs of physical trauma. The bullet wounds are there somewhere, underneath Shaw’s shirt and her hoodie, and maybe there are other marks that Root can’t see, marks that Shaw will have to reveal in her own time.
The deepest wounds, the ones that will take the longest to heal, are the psychological ones, and she wishes she knew how to help, how to stitch and bandage and fix them.
Shaw puts the glass down on the bedside table and looks up at Root.
“Sit down, Root, and stop staring. You’re being creepier than usual.”
Root shakes her head and takes a step back, but she can’t keep the smile from her face – as haggard and twitchy as she is, Shaw is still Shaw.
“I just can’t believe you’re here.”
Root sits gingerly on the bed beside her, her fingers gliding over Shaw’s and coming to rest on the mattress between them. Inches separate their hands, and she has to fight the urge to take Shaw’s hand in hers, to link their fingers together, to never let her go.
Shaw laughs, dark and without humor. “That makes two of us.”
The air conditioner creaks.
“So what now?”
She looks over her shoulder at the head of the bed. The one bed. That they’re sharing. At Shaw’s request.
Yeah, she’s going to have to unpack that one later because if she thinks about it too much now, thinks about Shaw maybe wanting to be close to her, her heart might actually burst out of her chest.
For all of her teasing and innuendo, she never really thought that this could be a mutual thing.
The only person I couldn’t kill was you sounds in her head over and over and over again.
“We get some sleep, I guess. It’s been a long day.”
The apprehension on Shaw’s face melts into confusion, like she was expecting a different answer.
“What? That’s it?”
“It’s 1:30 in the morning, Sameen. We can take down Samaritan when we wake up.”
Shaw’s left hand – the one on the side opposite Root – shoots up to the back of her ear. And she’s gone, lost in whatever Samaritan did to her, her eyes unfocused and glassy, staring straight ahead, and maybe taking down Samaritan can’t wait until morning. Maybe she needs to find them all right now, every single person even tangentially responsible for hurting Shaw, and hurt them in ways they’ve never even imagined.
But Shaw has demons to fight, and Root isn’t going to leave her alone in that. Revenge will wait.
She leans in front of Shaw and pulls her hand away from her ear. She should let go of Shaw’s hand, she should, but she doesn’t because it is solid and real and Shaw doesn’t seem to mind all that much.
Shaw meets her eyes and it would be so easy to lean down and kiss her, and for a second Root considers it. Shaw is here and Shaw is alive and Shaw’s fingers are wrapped around hers, her thumb absently running up and down the back of Root’s hand. But the moment is wrong – right now, she needs Shaw to know that she’s here, that Samaritan doesn’t have a hold on her anymore, that she’s safe. There will be time for kissing later.
“Talk to me, Shaw. What’s going on?”
“Do you know how many simulations I’ve been in like this? You and me in a room with a bed after I’ve escaped?”
Root shakes her head.
“Hundreds, probably. I don’t know the exact number.” She’s not quite looking at Root, but she’s not staring straight ahead either.
“They changed the simulations – sometimes you and Reese would break me out. Sometimes I would escape on my own. Sometimes we’d wind up in a safe house or a hotel or my apartment or yours.”
Root doesn’t have an apartment. She wonders if Shaw knows that, if she remembers.
“Do you know how many times you’ve suggested we just sleep? Not go protect the Machine, not go find the others, not have sex. Just sleep?”
She shakes her head.
“Once. Right now. And I don’t know if that means this is real or if that means the simulation is adapting, trying something new.”
Root doesn’t know what to say.
Shaw does, apparently.
“This shit sucks.”
Shaw untangles her hand from Root’s and stands up.
“I need to shower.”
The bathroom door opens and shuts and Root is alone.
There’s part of her that understands that Shaw might need to be alone, might need to escape to hot water and soap and a room without Root in it. She’s been through something more traumatic than Root can imagine, something that has implications and consequences that will stretch far beyond this room, and they will have to deal with that. Shaw will have to deal with that.
There’s part of her that understands that. But fear surges in another part of her the second Shaw walks away and she understands that Shaw needs space, but it’s really hard to care.
Root will have to deal with that – deal with the urge to follow Shaw into the bathroom, to keep her in her sight always, to protect her from Greer and from Samaritan and from herself. They are at the brink of something bigger than them, something dangerous and important and she can’t keep Shaw in a safehouse or the subway or locked up somewhere else, somewhere safe just because she is afraid of losing her again.
In a perfect world, maybe, Root would be able to protect the things she loves. Protect Shaw. Protect the Machine. But this isn’t a perfect world, and Root knows she’ll be lucky if even one of them makes it through this war alive.
She has repeated war requires sacrifice to herself so many times that it’s lost its meaning. Or maybe it lost its meaning in the Stock Exchange, the second Shaw stepped in front of a bullet that was meant for her. Or in Beth Bridges’ hotel room with Harold, willing to die for both the Machine and a woman he hardly knew. Or when the Machine gave up Her location to save them all.
War requires sacrifice, and it turns out the only sacrifice Root is comfortable with is her own.
Maybe it will be enough, maybe it won’t. But she’ll fight like hell to keep the others safe.
The water turns on in the bathroom and Root smiles.
The war with Samaritan will still be there tomorrow. Tonight, Sameen is back, alive and mostly whole, and Root can’t remember the last time she felt this much joy.
---
The room is dark when Shaw wakes up.
For a second, she’s back in the hospital room, adrenaline pumping through her as she reaches blindly for something – an orderly’s gun, a water glass that she could break, an extra piece of IV tubing, anything – that could help her get free. She sits up with her hand wrapped around the base of the hotel lamp, ready to swing it at Greer or Lambert or whoever comes in next with the damn VR headset, before she remembers where she is and who she’s with.
New York, not South Africa.
Hotel room, not hospital room.
Root, not Greer.
She lets go of the lamp and sits back against the headboard, waiting for her heart rate to slow down and her eyes to adjust.
In the darkness, she can make out Root beside her, lying on her side, facing Shaw. Her eyes are open, watching.
“You okay?”
(Root stands outside the bathroom door and asks the question. Shaw looks at her reflection in the mirror – she looks tired -- and tries to forget about the Semtex she’s tossed in a drawer.)
Shaw fights the impulse to touch a scar that doesn’t exist.
“I don’t know.”
There isn’t much she knows right now. She knows that this is either real or not real. Root is either here or she’s not. Shaw is either free or in another simulation.
Part of her wants to say “fuck it” and pick up her gun again, feel its weight in her hand as she lifts it toward her temple. If this is another simulation, she’ll just start over. If this is real, Root will be safer without her than with her.
But Root is goddamn stubborn and routinely lets her feelings override her common sense – I can’t live without you and If you even think I’m going to let you and didn’t know you cared, Shaw – and Root dying on her account just isn’t an option that Shaw can live with.
Root dying on her account hasn’t been an option that Shaw could live with for a long time now.
She thinks of a kiss – a distraction, a hello, a goodbye – and of the screams that echoed in her dreams for months. She would do the same thing all over again, even now, even knowing what she would endure.
It’s a thought that should make her uncomfortable, that would scare her if she were capable of feeling fear, but it doesn’t and she isn’t, so she rolls with it. She’s past the point of denying that Root is important.
“How long have you been awake?”
Root shifts to prop her head up on her hand before answering.
“A while.”
And maybe everything is real this time. There are too many variations, too many changes from the previous simulations. They wouldn’t change this much at once – it would make it impossible for them to see the effects of the individual variables, make it more difficult for them to categorize and analyze her response. The changes between the simulations are usually more subtle than this, more measured unless they’re changing the scenario entirely.
(“Root, it’s me. I need help” into the phone time and again, followed by rescues and death after death after death.
And then a shift to a hospital on an island with no phone call and no rescue. Instead, there is a mirror to break and an escape to orchestrate.)
“Were you watching me sleep?”
Root grins and yeah, this feels real, and Shaw can’t even make herself care that much that Root is being a creeper.
“I can’t help it. You’re so cute when you drool.”
God, she is such an asshole.
Was Samaritan-Root this much of an asshole?
Probably not.
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”
“You just did, sweetie.”
Punching Root would probably shut her up, but she’d probably be annoying and bleed all over the place and then Shaw would have to clean it up.
Kissing her would probably shut her up, but there’s probably a reason why that is a bad idea too.
She ends up doing neither.
“Shut up, Root.”
A comfortable silence settles over them – Root actually stopped talking and Shaw’s not so sure this is real anymore because when the hell has Root ever shut her mouth when Shaw told her to? – and Shaw tries not to feel too content.
She slides back down into the bed and rolls onto her side to face Root.
“So. Tell me what happened here while I was gone.”
“Oh, not much.” Root’s smile looks tired, like she’s trying to find humor where there isn’t any. “Lost you, killed Martine, the Machine almost died so we put Her in a suitcase, resurrected Her with a bunch of Playstations, the usual.”
“Playstations?” Shaw laughs because of course this nerd would power her god with video game consoles.
“Playstation 3s, to be specific.”
Sounds like a bunch of science fiction bullshit to her.
“And that actually worked?”
Root’s smile fades and she speaks softly, almost like she doesn’t want the Machine to hear her even though the Machine is supposed to hear everything.
“Well, She did try to kill Harry and me a few times at first, but She’s mostly stopped that now.”
There’s something about how Root says it – nonchalant, like it doesn’t matter at all – that tugs at Shaw. Root loves nothing more than the Machine, and to have it turn on her like that probably sucked big time.
“Sorry, Root.”
“It’s okay.”
And this time she smiles like it actually is okay, like they’re not all about to get their asses royally handed to them by this supercomputer war.
“It all worked out. We fixed the Machine, I got you back.”
Root reaches out and brushes a piece of Shaw’s hair behind her ear. The touch is tender and it should make her uncomfortable – she doesn’t do the tender touching thing. She does hard and rough and fast. Quick. Uncomplicated.
This kind of gentle shit is new and kind of dangerous and she should push Root’s hand away so she doesn’t get the wrong idea about what this is.
But she doesn’t. Because the tender touching thing is new and kind of dangerous but it’s also kind of not terrible? And whatever ideas Root has about what this is, what they are, what they could be, Shaw’s pretty sure she’s not wrong.
“Now all that’s left is to destroy Samaritan before it starts the cyber-pocalypse and all the robots take over, right?”
Root laughs and brings her hand back to rest on the mattress between them. “Something like that.”
It’s nice to hear Root laugh. Root deserves that, to laugh and be happy and that kind of crap. It’s not like happy endings are really a thing in their line of work, but if Root can be happy right now, before it all goes to shit, Shaw thinks that might be enough.
Root’s face falls after a minute. When she speaks, it’s barely above a whisper.
“I looked for you, Sameen. I would have kept looking forever.”
Shaw’s hand goes to the back of her ear before she can stop herself, her index finger gliding over smooth skin. Root’s words are so familiar – she must have heard hundreds of variations said with the same wavering tone, the same watery eyes – and everything is off-balance again because this could be Them, this could so easily be Them and Shaw will have fallen for it again.
But her skin is smooth and there is no scar, no chip, nothing but undamaged skin. She’s here and this is real and Root is real.
It feels like a plea now. This is real. This has to be real. Real real real.
“I know.” She lowers her hand. A beat passes then she adds, “You sent me a message.”
She wasn’t going to mention it. These are things they don’t talk about, things she doesn’t know how to talk about, things she’s not even sure she knows how to feel, but Root looks so sad and so tired and at some point Shaw started caring about all of that and she thinks that maybe it would help Root to know that she heard her, to know that her message mattered.
“Four alarm fire? Really, Root?”
It was a stupid, risky move, making an obscure reference to a single conversation they had while they were both trying not to die. A lot of their conversations seem to happen that way.
“You got it, didn’t you?”
Stupid and risky and sentimental and it fucking worked, so Shaw probably can’t complain too much.
“Whatever.”
She wants to tell Root that fire creates as much as it destroys, that forests are as dependent upon fire – upon chaos and heat and carnage – as they are upon water. The forest needs fire to stay alive, to grow. She wants to tell Root that she thinks they might be the same way – dangerous and destructive but still somehow necessary.
She can’t really figure out the right words, though, so she doesn’t say anything.
Root grins that stupid toothy grin she’s had all night, then closes her eyes and rolls over. “Good night, Shaw.”
Shaw strokes the back of her ear over and over again and falls asleep hoping this is real.
---
They sit in the car with the motor running.
The bridge looms in front of them – larger than life, like everything else in New York – and Shaw can’t remember if the simulations ever took her here.
The call from Finch came in an hour ago. Shaw had bolted upright in bed as Root reached blindly for her phone on the nightstand. The Machine had told Finch that Shaw was back and John had clued Fusco in on the whole Big Brother thing and how about everybody celebrate with breakfast?
Shaw got the feeling they haven’t had anything to celebrate in a long time.
Root turns off the car. “You okay?”
“Peachy.”
“I meant what I said, Shaw. You can stay in the car, I’ll go see the boys, and then you and I can go get pancakes without them.”
Shaw nods and looks out at the bridge. Finch is already there – she can see his outline standing alone, waiting for the rest of them.
Root opens her door.
“Wait.”
She doesn’t know yet if she wants to join Root, if she’s ready to see the others, if it’s safe for them to see her. But she wants to find out.
“Is this real?”
Root closes the door and angles her body to face Shaw, a soft smile on her face.
“I don’t know.” A pause. “Does it matter?”
It’s not the answer Shaw was expecting – last night had been full of reassurances that this is real, that this is all happening, that Samaritan doesn’t have any power over her anymore. Shaw wonders what changed.
“Kind of an insensitive thing to say to someone with reality issues, Root.”
Root smirks. “Then I guess it’s good that sensitive isn’t really your thing.”
She leans in to Root’s space, lowering her voice and raising an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m plenty sensitive.”
Root stammers out a response – something like “I meant emotionally sensitive” -- and Shaw feels kind of proud of herself. Knocking Root off balance was always one of her favorite things.
It takes a second, but Root regains her composure.
“I thought about it last night.”
Root doesn’t say “while I was watching you sleep like a creeper” but Shaw is pretty sure she’s hearing the subtext right. She’d woken up a second time and found Root staring again, like she thought Shaw might disappear if she took her eyes off of her even for a second.
“Maybe this is reality. Maybe it’s a simulation. Maybe I’m having the best dream of my life. I don’t know.”
Root smiles.
“But Sameen, I don’t care.” And she looks a little crazed and a little desperate and a little beautiful and Shaw can’t tear her eyes from her. “You’re here. We both are. Real or not, isn’t that enough?”
Shaw can’t think of anything to say, so she leans across the center console and kisses her.
It’s the second time she’s caught Root off guard in the space of two minutes, and Shaw would take time to revel in that if she weren’t so thoroughly distracted by the way Root’s lips feel against her own.
A full three seconds pass before Root responds, before her mouth moves against Shaw’s and Shaw forgets how to breathe. They move against each other slowly and Shaw stifles the urge to push, to bite, to destroy Root with her mouth and teeth and tongue.
She could destroy her, they could destroy each other, they could burn so hot and so fast that everything around them could come crashing to the ground, but not today. Not now.
Kissing Root now isn’t about that. It’s about Root saying the right damn thing at the right damn time for once, and maybe making Shaw feel a little better. They are both here, real or not, and it matters more than Shaw ever thought it could.
This is different than their first kiss – it’s not a goodbye, it’s not a distraction – and maybe Shaw can do gentle sometimes under the right circumstances.
When they separate, a little breathless, Root is grinning again and Shaw rolls her eyes.
“Shut up, Root.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Don’t care. You were going to.”
Root laughs and looks out at the bridge. Two more figures stand with Finch.
She gets out of the car and looks back at Shaw.
“Real or not real or who cares. You decide, Sameen. Either way, I’ll see you in a few.”
Shaw thinks for a minute.
She opens the door and steps out of the car.
---