Chapter Text
When Root was fourteen, when she was still Samantha Groves, she killed a man for the first time. She hadn't killed him with her own hands, but she’d orchestrated it, she had made it happen. And when she thinks about it now, when she imagines how his heart had probably sped up with fear before ceasing to ever beat again, she feels nothing. She doesn't feel remorse or guilt that he is dead. She doesn't even feel glad or relieved that he has now been punished for the crime he had committed and thought he had gotten away with. She feels nothing.
Sometimes she does feel regret though. She regrets the life she lost and the life it led her too.
Because she hadn't been all that careful.
They had found her, eventually, and although she wasn't the girl that they had wanted, they took her anyway. As a punishment… as a replacement… she doesn't know. She never did quite figure that one out. And she supposes now, years later, that it doesn't really matter either way. She is who she is, what she is, and she can’t escape that by dwelling on the past.
She has lost track of the years, can't really remember how long she’s been doing this for (it's easier to forget than to remember anyway, she tells herself) but it has been long enough that they trust her. To a certain extent. They give her autonomy. But she knows it isn't real, that it’s just a lie, an illusion. She knows there is always someone watching her. But it's the illusion that counts, let's her pretend that she is in control of the situation.
Vic, her pimp - well, one of them anyway – (barely out of his teens himself when Root first met him) lets her find her own marks. He doesn’t care who they are as long as they bring him in money. And it is that illusion of freedom, of her having a choice in the matter, which keeps her going sometimes.
There is one thing Root likes about the illusion. It allows her to be picky. And as ironic as it sounds given her life, she still has standards. Root often scouts out the more high-end bars of Manhattan, but there is one in particular she ventures to. It's on the borderline between high-end and seedy, full of rich men seeking out exactly what Root can give. But Root's picky and she disregards most of them as soon as she walks in, eyes roaming over possibilities. She ignores the married ones (too much hassle, too much risk of them chickening out) noticeable by the tan line where their wedding ring should be.
Root's eyes land on the bar and she smirks at what she sees there. A woman sitting alone, nursing a beer as she scowls at everyone else in the room. Dark hair and even darker eyes.
After doing this for the majority of her life, Root has gotten rather good at reading people, and she can tell by the way that the woman’s eyes roam and linger, that she is looking for some action tonight. And by the looks of things, she’s just as picky as Root.
Root slinks up to the bar, keeping to the right of the woman so that she can’t see Root’s approach. The barman shoots her a well-known look. He doesn’t like her, but he tolerates her scoping out his bar as long as no money is exchanged. Root appreciates his discreteness and isn’t worried about him suddenly calling the cops on her. Not when she knows about his illegal gambling den in the back. He ignores her for the most part as long as she doesn’t drive away any of his customers.
“Buy me a drink,” Root coaxes, leaning in close to the woman’s ear. The woman doesn’t even flinch, just turns her head to face Root, the scowl turning into a glare.
“And why would I want to do that?” she asks.
Root shrugs. “Because I think you are looking for a good time. And I can definitely show you a good time.”
Amusement quirks at Root’s lips again as the woman eyes her up and down, taking in the revealing red dress that Root had decided to wear that night.
“I doubt it,” the woman practically growls, turning back to down the rest of her drink.
Root isn’t sure what gave it away, but she is pretty sure that this woman’s tastes are a little more on the kinky side and that Root’s flashy dress implies that her tastes are more of the straight-lace variety. Should have worn the leather, she thinks.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” says Root, her voice low and husky. She can see the barman giving her a dark look and knows she is pushing her luck. But the woman is staring at her, swallowing thickly as she tries to keep her eyes firmly upwards. Root supresses a grin and knows she has her hooked. She quickly leaves the bar, knows that the woman is watching her and makes sure to sway her hips just that little bit more.
Outside, the air is cool and crisp. It makes Root shiver and now she wishes she wore that leather jacket for other reasons. She takes a pack of cigarettes out of her purse and lights one up. She doesn’t smoke herself, only carries a spare pack around in case a client asks for one (most of them do, and, like her, they are not smokers either, but they’ve already depraved themselves so much, they seem to always decide to go the whole extra mile) and she uses the action as an excuse to linger.
Just like she had guessed, the woman doesn’t take long to follow her out. Root offers her a cigarette, receiving a glower in return.
“I don’t smoke.”
Root shrugs and inhales deeply. She chokes as the smoke burns her lungs, tries not to splutter.
“And apparently neither do you,” the woman adds, staring at Root with her eyebrow raised. Root’s just glad to see the hardness leave her face slightly and she starts to think she might be warming this person’s icy exterior, giving her plenty of opportunity to worm her way in.
Root tosses the unsmoked cigarette aside.
“Look,” the woman speaks almost apprehensively, “I have particular tastes.”
Root shrugs. “I’m up for anything. Given the right price,” she adds and watches with amusement as comprehension dawns on the other woman’s face.
“You’re a hooker?” she says incredulously.
That word always makes Root cringe. “It’s professional escort, actually.”
The woman snorts. “Same thing.”
But Root doesn’t think so. Hookers stand on street corners in the freezing cold, picking up johns and fucking them in the backs of their cars. Root picks up clients in bars and usually goes back to cheap hotel rooms. It’s a distinction she has clear in her mind. Pretending, acting, like a professional makes it seem like it isn’t all for nothing.
“If you are worried about where I’ve been,” says Root, “I take personal hygiene very seriously. I’m clean.”
She tries to up the seductive smile on her face, the one she’s had more clients fall for than she can count, but she can’t keep the amusement out of it. Something about the unending grumpiness radiating from the other woman strips Root of any professionalism she thinks she has.
“Considering you work with the seedy and the even seedier,” the woman retorts, “I highly doubt that.”
Root smirks. “And you aren’t?”
“I haven’t paid you for anything,” the woman says and there is an unmistakable unsaid yet lingering behind her words.
“But you’re considering it,” Root guesses. “So what does that make you?”
“Not interested,” she sneers, turning on her heel and storming away.
The smirk plays across Root’s face once again and she feels something akin to disappointment spark within her. But she ignores it, because it’s a dangerous thought in her line of work, and she heads back inside the bar. She still has a job to do, after all. She learned a long time ago not to get on Vic’s bad side. And returning empty handed will certainly incur his wrath.
*
Root doesn’t go to the same place every night, but there are a few favourites that she returns to. The bar with the illegal gambling den in the back is one of them. She’s rather fond of the décor (it reminds her of home, in a way. Before everything went to shit.)
She has a drink tonight, bought by some guy in an expensive suit before he realised what she was and bailed. Root orders something sweet and strong, and sips it to make it last. She doesn’t drink often (Vic doesn’t like it when his girls drink) but there is that illusion again that tells her she is in control, and she thinks, one drink can’t hurt.
It’s quiet tonight and Root starts to think she’ll end up going home empty handed for the third night in a row. It’s an unsettling thought, because she knows if she keeps this up, it’ll only end up pissing Vic off, and that’ll be the end of the semblance of freedom she has acquired for herself.
So she puts on her best fake smile, finds the loneliest, drunkest person in the bar and begins chatting them up. It’s a game, she reminds herself. Only a game. And one she wins often.
The guy she has honed in on is so drunk every word out of his mouth is slurred, his breath reeking of alcohol. He’s so drunk he would give in to anything Root says, and she knows it will be easy to empty this guy’s wallet without having to actually do anything. He’ll probably pass out on the first flat surface he lays down on.
But they don’t get that far. They don’t even get out of the bar. There is a whoosh of air that whips up Root’s hair slightly as someone storms towards them and a tightly clipped, “Get lost” directed at her potential client.
Root raises her eyebrows in intrigue as the drunk guy stares in open mouthed confusion. A smirk plays at Root’s lips, and for the first time all night, it’s genuine.
It’s the woman from a few weeks ago. The grumpy one who had left Root standing out in the cold. There is a nasty cut above her left eye and she’s holding her side like she has a few broken ribs. It spikes Root’s curiosity. But she doesn’t ask. That isn’t part of what she does. Instead she leans back in her chair, trailing the tip of her finger around the rim of her near empty glass.
“Look, here’s the deal,” the woman hisses, voice low. “I have particular needs. You don’t talk unless I say so and we don’t go somewhere where they need ID or credit cards. We good?”
Root considers her a moment. The drunk guy would be easier, almost like having a night off. But she is oddly intrigued by this woman. There is a hint of something dark behind her eyes and it’s not the darkness of someone who is ashamed they are paying for sex. It is something more violent and merciless. It is something Root sees in herself and wishes she didn’t (because isn’t that what got her into this mess in the first place?)
“Don’t you want to talk prices first?” Root simpers, hiding from the darkness, using her aloofness as a shield.
*
Root doesn’t expect to see her again, but she does. Money is exchanged and Root makes her come (twice, but it’s not like she is keeping score) and it is not something Root normally does. She doesn’t see the same client twice. She has learned from the past how messy that can be. How easy it is for some of them to get attached (and she would find it sweet if it wasn’t so hilariously ridiculous.)
But not this one. Not her. Root doesn’t know what it is, but she isn’t like other clients, not like other people and Root knows she isn’t going to see this for something that it’s not. And maybe that’s why, after the fourth time, Root cuts to the chase and gives her her number, so that she doesn’t have to keep hunting Root down in bars like she is the only escort in the city.
She receives a raised eyebrow in return, but its effect is kind of ruined by the flush of post-orgasm as she lies naked on the cheap hotel bed.
“Sam,” she says eventually in response.
“W-what?” says Root, stiffening slightly.
“You can call me Sam.”
Root smiles (and it’s one of those genuine ones again) and something in the way she says it tells Root that this isn’t some lie made up to throw her off her game, to keep this anonymous. The name is real, shortened from something else, but with a lingering truth nonetheless.
“Okay, Sam,” says Root, her voice sickeningly sweet as she pulls on the last of her clothes. “Until next time.”
And Root knows there will be one. She’s sure of it.
*
“Shouldn’t you get that checked out?”
There is a nasty gash trailing its way from Sam’s belly button and round and up her side. Sam glances at it as if it is the first time she is noticing it.
“It’s fine,” she shrugs and urges Root to continue taking her clothes off.
But Root pauses. “Are you a doctor now?” she says lightly. She isn’t exactly one herself, but she’s seen enough injuries (most of them on herself) over the years to know the distinction between a scratch and something that is going to need more professional attention than anything that can be found in a first aid kit.
“Actually,” says Sam, “I was.”
Root’s fingers still. This is the first time Sam has ever mentioned something of her life and it isn’t exactly what Root had been expecting. Given the amount of injuries Root has seen littering her body (and a few of them were bullet holes, she is sure) she had been expecting something a little more exciting. She wonders if Sam is lying, but the casual way she had said it tells her otherwise. Sam may have been a doctor, but that certainly isn’t what she does now.
A question lies on the tip of Root’s tongue, but she reins it in. They don’t do conversation, after all. Some nights they don’t even talk.
This time, after Sam is thoroughly satisfied and Root has gathered up her money, she leaves first as she usually does. But she doesn’t go home. Instead, she lurks in the shadows across the street, waiting for Sam to exit the hotel. Some ten minutes later, she appears, looking flushed and not from the cold night air. Root follows her, keeping her distance. She can’t tell whether Sam knows she is being followed or if she is just really paranoid, but Root is convinced they are going around in circles.
Eventually, somewhere downtown and several subway stops later, Sam pauses outside an apartment building and pulls out a set of keys before letting herself in. Root waits. Eventually someone comes out and she hurries to catch the door before it shuts. She stares at the mailboxes, unsure of what she is looking for until she sees it. A name she is sure must be hers.
Sameen Shaw.
Root doesn’t know why, but that knowledge fills something inside of her. She goes home, feeling unsteady and oddly reckless as Vic demands his money from her. A quick, acerbic response leaves her mouth before she can stop it and Vic hits her across the face, the ring on his finger digging hard into her cheek, breaking the skin.
It stings. It should be a warning, a message telling her not to be so defiant again. But Root thinks about Sam and the nasty cut on her side and doesn’t listen to the throbbing of her cheek.
*
“Do you ever think about getting out?”
Root stiffens at the unexpected question. It’s not one she has an answer to (because the answer hurts too much to even think about) and she pitches a defensive smile on her face like it is a shield.
“You think you’re the first john to ask me that?”
Sam isn’t, but she is the first one that has made Root truly consider the question.
Annoyance flashes across Sam’s face before it is gone, replaced by her usual indifferent look (Root prefers her face post-orgasm, there’s an innocence to it, like Sam is allowing herself to let go of the masks for once) and Root wonders what it was for, annoyance at herself for asking the question in the first place, or at Root for not giving a straight answer.
“Why are you asking anyway?” Root asks, wondering why Sam even cares.
“You’re smart,” Sam shrugs. “You could get out if you wanted.”
“But I don’t want,” Root snaps, trying to keep the anger out of her voice, because how dare she? How dare she even pretend to know a damn thing about her life? “I’m good at what I do.”
Sam looks at her like she knows that’s true and it makes Root feel a little bit smug, but also a little bit sad too.
“Don’t worry about me, Sam,” Root says, throwing lightness into her voice that she doesn’t feel. “I can take care of myself.”
After all, she has survived this far.
*
Root’s phone goes off and Vic snatches it up before she can reach for it.
“Who the hell is Sam?” he asks, suspicion heavy in his voice.
“That regular I told you about,” Root replies, reaching for the phone. Vic is about a foot taller than her and he holds it high out of her reach.
“Since when do you take regulars?” Vic asks.
Root shrugs, trying to recall if she has actually ever mentioned Sam. She can’t remember and even if she had, it was definitely not by name, which is probably what is making Vic so ratty.
“Increase your prices,” Vic says, handing her back the phone. Root takes it, reading the message she received from Sam. Vic has already answered it for her and she feels oddly annoyed by that, like he is violating something precious, something just her own that he should have never been allowed near.
“Why?” she asks.
“Because I said so,” Vic snaps, holding her forearm tightly, fingers digging in. She is sure it is going to leave a bruise and she lets out a gasp, unable to contain it. Vic smiles. It’s dangerous and harsh, intended to put her in her place. She has seen that smile before and knows what happens if you force it from his face.
“Okay, fine,” she says and there is a slight sneer to her voice that has never been there before, not with him. She doesn’t know what has made her so brave lately, so defiant. But Vic senses it and his grip tightens.
“Fifty per cent,” he says.
Root thinks that’s a little unreasonable, but she doesn’t tell him that and finds herself only upping her prices by twenty.
She still feels wrong doing it.
*
When Vic brings his new girls in, Root always tries to stay out of the way.
Some of them owe him or his friend’s favours, drug or gambling addicts who got in too deep. Some of them have no other options, it’s their only choice: this life or die.
But some of them… some of them break Root’s heart.
And it’s not the addicts or the idiots who moved to New York without a plan, looking for the high life. She doesn’t give a shit about them.
It’s the kids.
It’s the kids that look so scared, look so young and so much like how she imagines she must have looked her first few months in New York.
Usually she does her best to ignore them. They usually don’t stay here long, sent away somewhere far away that Root doesn’t like to think about. But Vic has made her stay in tonight, makes her stick close to his side and it makes Root wonder if he is trying to make a point. If he is trying to punish her.
But Root has always been good at ignoring things she doesn’t want to deal with and she forces herself to remain indifferent, to not care. And it’s easy. Easy until she hears soft crying and then a yelp of pain as Vic’s hand slaps hard across a face.
He hisses for the girl to shut up. She doesn’t and that only makes Vic hit her harder. Root looks away and thinks about something else, pretending she doesn’t care.
*
Root has gotten good at not caring over the years, of not giving a shit about other people. Lately, and she doesn't know what it is, why now, but she finds herself wondering, finds herself forming questions in her mind. Questions about herself and why she does what she does. Questions about other people. She finds herself thinking about Sam a lot, what she does and what she is running from, who puts all those wounds on her body. And sometimes, in the long stretch of weeks when she doesn't see or hear from Sam, she worries. She worries that maybe this time the bullet will hit its mark.
Root tells herself it's because she is used to the regular income, that seeing Sam so often means she can reduce down on who else she sees. But she isn't sure if she believes that. She doesn't know what to believe.
Now that it has started though, she can't seem to make it stop. This ability to care that has somehow managed to sneak up on her out of nowhere, unannounced like some ghost you can't see or hear until it moves through you, making you shiver. She tries to ignore it, leave it outside of her where it can rot away and leave her be. But it doesn't stay there. It finds its way back in the long dark hours of the night, when she hears the soft crying of someone young and innocent in the next room.
And she can't drown it out. It just seems to get louder and louder until the sound compels Root from her bed.
It's the same girl from before, a nasty bruise developing on her face from where Vic's fist had made impact. The crying ceases as soon as she realises she is no longer alone and she curls up in a ball, retreating to the far corner of the room, hiding in the shadows.
Now that she is here, Root isn't sure what she is supposed to do. The girl stares at her expectantly, the fear slowly fading from her eyes. It's that more than anything, more than the unsurety, that makes Root retreat. She doesn't like the way trust seems to lay at her feet. It feels too heavy, like it's trying to drag her down, deep into the world. So she avoids the girl, as best she can, until she can avoid it no more.
*
Vic's on the warpath. Root has no idea why (and she is just glad she isn't the cause of it), but she has seen him like this before and knows painfully well what happens if you get in his way. So Root makes sure to stay out of it.
The girl isn't so lucky though.
Root can't stop herself from watching. It's like that morbid fascination when there is a car accident at the side of the road and all the vehicles slow down as they are passing to have a good look.
Root can't look away now and she can't stop herself from wondering if the girl is going to survive it, if she is going to come out from underneath Vic's fists and feet.
Vic stops eventually, tired or bored because she isn't fighting back, Root doesn't know. He leaves the girl lying on the floor, her breathing ragged, like it is a struggle and not the most natural thing her body could do.
Something compels Root then. Maybe it is the same something that compelled her the other night, but whatever it is, it induces Root to step forward, to lift the girl into her arms and carry her back to her bedroom. Root cleans up the wounds as best she can, finds an icepack from somewhere but doesn't know where best to use it, given the amount of injuries. Eventually, the girl decides for her and holds it to her face. It's starting swell horribly, Root notes.
"What's your name?" Root asks.
"Goldie."
"Your real name," says Root, "not your street name." She doesn't think that's one that the girl has picked herself. Root is lucky in that respect. She got to pick her own and it amuses her every day that Vic has never once figured out what it really means, that it's a link to her past and another life that she never got to live.
The girl doesn't say anything. Good, Root thinks, you're learning.
The fear is gone from the girl's eyes but so is any trust that Root may have thought she had seen there before.
All she sees is a hardness that Root herself has seen in the mirror.
It terrifies Root more than she would care to admit.
*
The hardness doesn't leave the girl's eyes. It remains there for weeks and Root knows she is closing herself off, using that hardness to build herself an outer shell from which she can hide. Root knows because she has done it too.
And she knows what happens when that shell starts to crack.
*
Root doesn’t know when it happened, but the only client she ever sees now is Sam. She doesn’t think Vic has noticed and she’s had to dip into her secret stash of cash, the money she’s held back just in case, the money she has stolen and squandered little by little (it's the pitifully small dollar bills that make her wish for a computer more than ever. Because then, then she would have everything. But Vic knows how she is with computers, and doesn't dare let her near one unless he is in on whatever scheme she has planned.) She tries not to worry about how much of it is gone. How she can’t keep using it to supplement the fact that she is no longer doing her job.
But every time she thinks about it, every time she ventures to a new bar, the thought of picking up some sleazy guy leaves her feeling cold inside. But not with Sam though, never with Sam. With Sam, Root feels like she can do anything and sometimes she has to force herself not to forget to take the money at the end of night.
And it's not until she needs it, desperately so, that Root realises just how stupid it was to think she could keep going like this.
It's the girl that does it, in the end. The girl that reminds Root so much of herself. It's the last straw, the final thin thread, ready to snap.
Root just can't believe it has taken her this long.
But, she thinks, she's never really had any reason to run before (and ignores the thought that reminds her it's been almost three weeks since she has heard from Sam.)
She doesn't know what set Vic off this time, but Root recognises the murder in his eyes. The girl has been an easy target ever since she arrived and Root knows that this time, this time when Vic's fists make contact, they won't stop until whatever is lying at his feet become still.
It's stupid. Stupid to risk her own life for some girl she doesn't even know. But she finds herself stepping in the way of Vic’s fists before she can think about it, feeling the skin tear and her lip burst as her flesh is knocked back into her teeth.
Afterwards, when Vic disappears to go do whatever it is that he does to cool off, Root grabs up her remaining cash, stuffs it into her pockets along with her cell phone and then goes for the girl, putting a finger to her lips to tell her to be quiet.
The girl looks at her questioningly, but doesn't say a word. She grips Root's hand tightly as they run. Root isn't sure where they are going, only knows that they have to get as far away as possible. But Root knows they can't run forever. She remembers the cell phone in her pocket then and she squeezes the girl’s hand slightly to get her stop. Dawn is breaking over the horizon, the city waking up and Root dials a number she has never dialled before. That's not part of their deal. Root never contacts Sam. Sam always calls her and Root doesn't expect an answer as she listens to the phone ring out.
Root doesn't know what it means, what it says about her, that her first instincts when she needs help is not to run to the cops, but to call Sam, call the john (because let’s face it, that's what she is) that has somehow gotten under Root's skin, past her defences and has turned into something more than Root had ever wanted or allowed.
The line picks up and Root almost jumps. "I want out," she blurts and not the I need your help that she so desperately wants to say.
"What?" says Sam, sounding confused and so very far away.
"Please," says Root hurriedly and notices the kid's eyes widening. "I need-" She cuts herself off then, because she hears what has the kid looking so scared. A car pulls up at the other end of the alley they are hiding in and she hears Vic's voice, calling out both their names. Root hangs up the phone abruptly, grabs the kid roughly around the arm and drags her towards the other end of the alley and onto a somewhat busy street.
It's still early and there is not a yellow cab in sight. A bus pulls up at a stop a little ways down the street and Root pulls the girl in that direction, glancing over her shoulder to check for Vic behind her. He's nowhere in sight but Root knows he'll find them soon. She ignores the curious glances from bystanders on the street, gawking at her face and she wonders how bad she looks right now.
Root thrusts all of her cash into the girl's hand and urges her onto the bus , telling her not to get off until she is sure it is safe, telling her to go to the cops (not that Root would ever dare go to them herself), anything as long as she gets out of there. The kid doesn't protest, just gets on the bus and looks at Root as if she is expecting Root to come with her. But Root doesn't. She knows Vic will never stop trying to hunt them down if Root goes too. She just hopes she can buy the girl enough time to get away safe.
Vic doesn't find her. She's not entirely sure how that happened, but she wanders the streets for hours just in case and there is still no sign of him or any of the others Root has come to know and fear (and pity) over the years. She doesn't dare go back, but she also doesn't have anywhere else to go. And the thought of turning a trick to earn some cash so she can afford a hotel room for a night leaves her feeling cold and sick. But the thought gives her an idea and suddenly her feet are moving with sureness in their direction.
It's dark by the time Root reaches the apartment building. Once again she lurks outside, waiting for someone to leave so she can gain entrance. She remembers the name on the mailbox and matches it to the apartment number. Root doesn't get an answer when she knocks and she remembers how far away Sam had sounded, like they were thousands of miles apart. But she doesn't know if that's her imagination, conjured up by how little she knows about Sam's life. But maybe it's another kind of distance, one that's invisible and can't be put into words, can't be said by either of them because they are too different, too broken.
The bruises throb on Root's face and she slumps to the floor, resisting the urge to prod and poke them, examine the damage done to her as if she can somehow fix it. She doesn't know how long she sits there, how long she waits, ignoring anyone who passes her, uncaring of their curiosity and their suspicion.
Root hears her before she sees her (although she doesn't know how exactly; Sam is light on her feet, barely making a sound) and she stands up quickly. There's a flash of anger on Sam's face, but it retreats quickly, making Root conscious of the bruising on her face. She doesn't like the pity that she thinks she can see there.
"I didn't know where else to go," Root explains, relieved when the pity is replaced with annoyance.
"How did you find where I live?" Sam asks, taking a set of keys from her pocket and moving towards the door.
"I followed you once," Root says casually. She expects the annoyance to flare in full force, and it does briefly, but Root is pretty sure it is not aimed at her. She feels the bruises more heavily then and moves inside the apartment when Sam urges her inside. As soon as the door is shut, Root feels safe, the safest she has felt in a long time, and she doesn't know if it is the apartment itself or if it's Sam. Sam, who despite the numerous injuries varying in severity, the ambiguous nature of her entire life, Root is convinced that Sam is good, that Sam won't hurt her like Vic will without a second thought.
Sam asks her what happened, eyes studying the injuries on Root's face. Root thinks about telling her everything (and she means everything, even her life from before, when she was still Samantha Groves) but she doesn't. She remembers they don't do conversation, they don't talk about their lives. It isn't part of the deal.
"I told you," Root says and as she does, she realises it was a mistake to come here. "I wanted out."
"Yeah," says Sam and Root has to look away, unable to bear the way Sam is looking at her. "How did that work out for you?"
Root doesn't say anything. She isn't sure what she could say that would wipe the look from Sam's face.
"Look," says Sam tightly. "Whatever shit you’ve gotten yourself into... I don't need it."
It's like a stab to the gut, the way Sam's words hit her and she knows, she knows that she was a fool to come here, to think that Sam would care. She hasn't exactly ever given Sam reason to, never given anyone reason to. She isn't the type of person people care about and she has never wanted anyone to anyway. But now... now she cares and it hurts that Sam doesn't.
A loud sigh makes its way from Sam’s mouth. Root keeps her head down low. She doesn't want to know what might be on Sam's face. Annoyance... pity... whatever it is, Root doesn't want it.
"Here," says Sam.
It takes Root a moment to realise what she is referring to. Then she spots the money, hovering under her nose. "This should be enough to get you out of town and on your feet."
Root doesn't know if there is more meaning behind the gesture than there seems, if it's just Sam's way of attempting to get rid of her quickly, but Root finds her hand reaching for the wad of cash anyway. It's more of an automatic response than anything, she's so used to taking money from Sam. But this is the first time she has felt sick doing it and she can't seem to stop her hand from shaking.
"Thanks," Root mutters and she realises she means it, that she is grateful for whatever help Sam can give, in her own small way.
She shoves the money in her pocket and she is moving towards Sam before she can think about it, pressing her lips roughly against Sam's. Root doesn't kiss her clients. Sam was always the exception to that rule. She still can't remember when it happened, how it happened, only that it did, but this time... this time it feels different. It feels real.
A hand presses against her shoulder, breaking the kiss as Root is pushed away.
"You don't have to," Sam says. Her cheeks are flushed and Root has seen that same flush of arousal before. But it doesn't stop the sudden anger that flares inside her. And it would be so much easier to be mad at Sam, but all she can do is be mad at herself for thinking this could ever be anything more than what it is, what she is.
"I'm not doing this because you handed me money," Root snaps, hating herself, hating her life. "I'm doing it because I want you to fuck me."
But even that is asking too much and she knows it. Root doesn't get to do this, she doesn't get to do normal. And normal is never exactly something she has ever wanted. But now... now she can't think about anything else. About getting out, about doing things differently. And Sam is the only person she can see herself doing that with.
She doesn't know why her of all people. Sam is the most closed off, stubborn and angry person Root has ever met. She's different to most people. And maybe that's why Root is so drawn to her. She is drawn to that difference, that darkness that she also recognises within herself.
But she was wrong to think Sam could ever see her as anything else. As anything other than a transaction, an easy deal where Sam gets what she needs and walks away without any fuss.
Root isn't expecting the offer of Sam's couch and she is definitely not surprised by the cold way Sam says she wants her gone by morning. The coldness seems to wrap itself around her, seeps into her skin and Root retreats further into the room, trying to get away from it, trying to escape her. But she can't seem to, even when Sam disappears into her bedroom, hiding behind a closed door. Root wishes she had something to hide behind.
But she doesn't and she shivers as she feels the heavy weight of the money in her pocket, like Sam was paying her to go away and get out of her life.
Root counts the money absently. It's enough to get her out of town, far enough away where Vic won't find her. But she has no idea where she would go, what she would do, but she has the inescapable urge to find a computer (it's been a long time, sometimes she thinks too long, but she knows she can do anything, knows she could decipher its inner workings, despite the years of disuse and their advances. Computers always seemed so easy to her, like a song breezing its way through her head, part of her. She could do that again, she thinks, and wishes she had enough money to buy some decent tech.)
Computers are just another thing Vic has taken away from her.
But he can't take her control, not all of it (just like he can't take all of her name, because Root is her name, the one she had chosen) and she decides then, that if she is going to get out, she's going to have to do it on her own. Without Sam's help.
Root lays out the money neatly on the coffee table where Sam is sure to see it in the morning, and quietly leaves the apartment. She feels like she is sneaking out after doing something indecent, but honestly, it might be the most innocent thing she has ever done in her life.
The streets are dark and quiet as Root roams aimlessly around, fleshing out a plan of action in her mind. She is so caught up in her own head that she doesn’t hear the car pull up beside her until there is fists tightly gripped around her upper arms, holding her still and a hard, swift punch in the gut that leaves her seeing stars and unable to breathe.
Root knows she would be down on her knees, lying in heap, if it weren’t for the firm hands holding her upright. She looks up to find Vic staring down at her, no doubt the cause of the pain flaring through her gut like fire.
How did he find me?
As if reading her mind, Vic smirks. “You think I didn’t jack your phone? You think I haven’t known exactly where you’ve been going every night?”
Of course, she thinks. Of course he has always been watching. She really never did have that control, that autonomy. It really was all just an illusion.
But she is glad though, glad he hadn’t come looking for when she was still at Sam’s, glad that her shit hasn’t touched Sam’s life.
“Where’s the girl?” Vic asks.
Root smirks then, because the way he says it, with that tightly controlled annoyance, she knows he has no idea where she is, that the girl is safe.
Vic’s entire face tightens at Root’s defiance and he gestures to one of the goons behind him (Mike? Root thinks, although she doesn’t really care what his name is), big and muscly and when his fists hits her already bruised face, it’s like being slammed suddenly by a brick.
Blood fills her mouth. Root spits it out, keeping the smirk on her face, watching as the anger glints in Vic’s eyes. She wonders how she looks, if she looks feral and manic, if he is a little bit scared of how she isn’t bending down and taking it, giving in and giving him exactly what he wants just so that it will be over.
But she doesn’t give in. And she thinks, this is my control.
Feet and fists fly at her then and still Root doesn’t give in. She has never seen Vic this angry before and knows she never will again. But she is oddly at peace with that thought. It doesn’t hurt as much as she thought it would.
She thinks of Sam. Wonders if she will ever know what happened to her. If she will ever even give Root a passing thought after this night. And although thinking about that hurts (in more ways than Root can ever express, more than the punches and the kicks) she is glad that Sam is her last thought, that when she closes her eyes, Sam is the last thing she sees before everything goes black.