Work Text:
They don’t talk.
Root likes talking. She may be cryptic at times, and downright annoying at others, but talking is a weapon that allows her to crack people as if they were code. She likes seeing the way they respond and how they respond. She likes to see if they listen or don’t listen. She likes to read their body language and poke where it hurts the most. She enjoys the nuances in the spectrum of paying attention.
But Shaw doesn’t like talking so Root stays quiet and even when they fuck, their moans and whimpers come out as low as the hum of civilization at dawn.
*
They don’t talk.
Shaw notices the glint in Root’s eye, that crazy twinkle that lets her know Root has a universe of things to say and an endless list of innuendos she could be making, but they never leave her lips. Shaw can see them though, clearly written all over Root’s face, in the corners of her mouth turned upwards or in the tiny frown between her eyebrows.
But Root stays silent and even if Shaw doesn’t like the idea that Root’s silence is for her, she’ll take it.
*
They don’t talk.
Root has learned that Shaw is a code that needs to be hacked with another type of strategy. So she listens to the sounds of her body in the moments they spend together; the crescendo of her breathing, the gruff resonances from her throat when pleasure is brought upon by pain, the brash thuds of her heart after an orgasm (and Root always makes her come).
If Shaw doesn’t like talking, Root will speak in a different way.
*
They don’t talk.
Shaw appreciates it because she doesn’t want to put words to the fact that they’ve been fucking on the regular for the past two months, in between numbers and missions and near-deaths. She can’t quite shake off the feeling that Root is trying to tell her something, even if she tries very hard to ignore it.
Root does make it almost impossible, with her now always perfectly manicured nails, that are painted many colors but are never short.
(Shaw’s body has a lot of marks these days, inside and outside, and Shaw will be caught dead before she admits she cherishes them)
*
They don’t talk.
Root is used to the silence now, to the far and between sharp sentences and the curt nods. She doesn’t mind anymore, finding solace in other comforts. In Shaw making the time to come to wherever she’s hiding that day, in their shoulders brushing when they sit side by side in public, in the crisps and chocolates she can eat without having to face Shaw’s wrath.
Shaw, Root is finally accepting, is a woman who will never tell, but is also a woman who can’t help showing.
*
They don’t talk.
Shaw is not entirely sure that is such a good idea anymore. She prefers believing it is, for she is not ready to think about what that look on Root’s face means, that half a second when she comes down from her sex-induced high and she gazes at Shaw as if Shaw is the only thing that matters, the only thing she has. As if Shaw is her constant.
Shaw doesn’t like it because when Root looks at her like that, the volume of her feelings buzzes louder and louder and threatens to come out of her chest.
*
They don’t talk.
Root embraces the stillness, feels a little more whole. Some days, even the Machine will leave her be and it really is just them, just Root and Shaw. Root likes those days.
On those days, Root buys more groceries than she knows what to do with, and she cooks.
Food is a language Shaw can understand.
*
They don’t talk.
Shaw doesn’t think arguing counts as talking. She hates Root. Hates hates hates her, and her swaying hips and her multiple wigs and disguises and how she smells sweet even when she’s sweaty.
Shaw hates that Root is reckless and careless, that she embodies the role of martyr so well, a fit ending to the prophet of a pre-apocalyptic modern world that she believes herself to be.
Shaw hates all of it for Shaw is only human, and humans are bound to fail.
*
“Root.”
Root stops and covers her naked torso with her shirt, a smirk already forming on her lips. She loves the way Shaw says her name, a turtledove in the spring, a spat out T like talking is hard.
(and it is, to Shaw)
“Yes?” she asks, standing tall, arms sliding inside sleeves, a cascade of hair released on her back.
“Stay the night.”
*
They don’t talk.
But Root’s pinkie finds Shaw’s under the covers and that’s how they fall asleep.