Work Text:
Shaw doesn't hesitate. She’s steadfast, decisive, resolute in all her actions.
It’s not in her programming, Root would say.
But the glitches are occurring more and more frequently.
Shaw’s cover is blown, and she takes down three Decima agents without so much as blinking. Then she’s out the door and behind Root on a sleek motorcycle, arms braced around Root’s torso. They hide in a moving truck, Root curling protectively around Shaw.
“You can let go now,” Shaw says quietly once the coast is clear.
Root speaks to Finch, and Shaw watches her mouth curve dangerously.
It’s not really hesitation, more like a moment of consideration. (Consideration of what? Shaw hasn’t managed to figure it out yet.)
Then she elbows Root in the stomach and away from her, and just like that Shaw can breathe again.
Root carves a zig-zagging path into an abandoned warehouse located conveniently just out of Samaritan’s (and Her) reach.
“We weren't followed,” Root says, and her expression lightens by just a shade. She continues, “So it’s just you and me now, Shaw, alone with a few hours to kill.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind Shaw’s ear with intent.
“You’re crazy,” Shaw says flatly, leaning against the cleanest worktable. Even at the edge of the world with nowhere else to go, Root is still Root.
“No more and no less than you,” Root says with a reverent look, eyes shining and a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Definitely more than me, Shaw wants to say.
Still she doesn't deny Root when soft lips brush against hers and sharp nails dig into her back insistently. This lasts only very briefly before Root pulls back, analyzing Shaw with a calculating gaze – dark eyes meeting darker.
She does falter now though. What Root wants… Shaw’s not so sure she can give.
Root exhales, breath fanning against Shaw’s face hotly.
(Fuck it all. They’re both going to die very soon anyway. Probably or something.)
They crash back into each other, teeth clashing, fingers clawing, and it’s a perfect collision – head on and no shying away, no turning back.
Shaw’s movements are rough and without finesse, but for this one night maybe she can trick herself into thinking that they’re both indestructible (incorruptible, Root would say). And so Shaw unapologetically hurts her, and so Root uncomplainingly enjoys it.
But she can’t turn off her training, can’t stop thinking of all the ways she can kill Root in this position alone. Shaw drags Root’s hand in between her legs and tries to forget about mortality – tries to forget about inevitable casualties in a war between two Gods.
Martyr is such an easy role to play, Shaw knows this all too well. She just hopes it’s her and not Root who gets cast. Getting shot down has never hurt as badly as being helpless has ever felt.
Samaritan’s operatives find them at dawn.
They’re as prepared as they’ll ever be – with no back-up, with limited ammo, with-
Root steps smoothly in front of her, a gun in each hand, aiming and firing in her casually accurate way. Several of their attackers collapse to the ground lifelessly, and Root doesn't even flinch. One shot rings out differently than the others and blood splatters onto Shaw’s face – crimson and warm. She catches Root just before she hits the hard concrete, arms straining with the effort. Shaw barely manages to drag Root behind cover, a trail of dying red in their wake.
“Root,” Shaw says urgently, eyes and hands surveying the damage. Root is very still. Through the shakiness of her sight, Shaw knows it’s useless.
A ghost of a smile still adorns Root’s expression.
Even as Shaw shuts Root’s eyes.
(She selfishly wishes for more of a goodbye. More of a warning, damn it.
This is war, Shaw.)
A quick pattering noise alerts Shaw to the presence of nearby Decima operatives gaining on her location. She hesitates – muscles frozen and blood raging in her veins. Hesitation equals death, but Shaw thinks maybe for once it’s not a bad result.
And then her instincts snap her back to reality, and Shaw’s back in, guns and eyes blazing.
She can’t let them take what’s left. (Of Root. Of herself.)
There’s nowhere left to hide and nowhere she wants to be.
A payphone to her left rings.
Shaw pauses in her purposeful stride, jaw clenching.
For all its omnipotence and all-seeing eye, It (not She – machines are all ugly cold metal, twisting wiring, and stuttering lights, nothing like the solid heartbeat or warm welcome home of a smile of Its Analogue Interface) is just as powerless as Shaw.
She ignores it and continues on her way.
Another payphone rings.
And another.
And another.
Until a whole line of them are ringing and following her and haunting her.
She breaks into a sprint.
The cacophony dies down, and Shaw wonders if maybe she just imagined it.
Without Root, Finch has to fill the empty space, the position of correspondence, and Shaw and Reese are once again on the run with new masks, new lives. It’s not the same but this is still about persistence, about the pure stubbornness of escaping death time and again.
Included in the Sameen Steele starter pack is a new phone, ID cards, a wad of cash, and a tape recorder.
She presses play.
“… goodbye, Sameen.”
She imagines Root in the days before her death, pale and exhausted, reclining in Finch’s desk chair, biting into an apple. Root forcing a smirk and picturing – predicting – her own death and leaving Shaw this last practically empty gesture.
Shaw plays the recording again, committing the flirty tone to memory.
And then one last time.
And then she destroys it in the only way she knows how.
Resolutely and without hesitation.
The headstone is cold to the touch, and she shivers. Her fingers trace over the indented name – the wrong one, but it’s what she’s buried under (she doesn’t know what Root would have had to say about it). And Shaw stands, fixing her beanie, and walks away, fallen golden leaves crunching under her footsteps.
She forges on ahead and doesn't look back, doesn't even think of stopping.
Regret is just another one of those things that she simply can't do.
(But for one moment, she almost feels it.
And as with all things concerning Root, it’s the almost – the not quite there, but so damn close – that threatens to get her.
It’s the kind of poison that comes from within – eating away at your sanity.
So Shaw doesn't let it.
She survives instead.)