Chapter Text
Shaw calls and-
if Harold thought Root was desperate and angry before, he must have forgotten what she was like just after Shaw disappeared, what she was like when they first met- this strange, brilliant, feral woman, all teeth and gunmetal.
Harold has always been- nervous, around Root.
She's always seemed unstable.
But Shaw calls, manages a few warbled, desperate words before the line is cut and-
It's like a bandage has been torn off, and whatever had been healing in Root is raw and weeping again.
And Harold watches her-
break. Fall apart, as all unstable things must.
It is, altogether, a quieter affair than he thought it would be.
Root does not cry, or scream, just- crumples in over the phone, this ragged sob tearing itself from her throat, a wounded animal noise, thick and feral and desperate.
After so long not knowing if Shaw was dead or alive this-
this one-sentence call,
it seems almost cruel. No kind of answer at all,
and Harold is a smart man. Good at pattern recognition.
He know Root will within the hour have blood on her teeth and a gun in each hand but-
just for a moment, just after Shaw calls, from wherever she's been these past months, Root breaks, and Harold realizes what a big hole Shaw had left, to weaken them enough for such a collapse.