Archive of Our Own

When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become someone different. When that person is taken from you, what do you become then?

It’s that night after the shootout in the hotel, when the team was saving a number from Samaritan’s threat and Root threw herself in front of the wolves to lead them off his scent; before Shaw’s cover was blown, before the stock exchange, before all those months that melted together into one confusing ball of static in her brain, before she came back and lost everything all over again... it’s that night that keeps haunting Shaw’s thoughts anytime she runs out of stuff to distract herself with. 

Now she’s on the subway on her own, hands in the pocket of her hoodie and eyes on the floor, waiting for excitement to arrive. But instead of observing and anticipating her fellow passengers, she’s thinking about that night after the election.

She’d gone home from the polling office after Finch’s worrisome remark about Root’s wellbeing, knowing there wasn’t much she could do for Root until she herself requested her involvement. Still, Shaw was restless when she got home. She paced back and forth in the small kitchen of the stupid gaudy apartment that came with her stupid flashy cover identity, nursing a beer and keeping her eyes on her phone.

There was a knock on the door not thirty minutes later. Root stumbled inside without waiting for an invitation. She was clutching her shoulder, hand covered in blood, and Shaw knew what the deal was. She coaxed a panting, feeble Root into her bathroom and sat her down on the edge of the bathtub. Root was already way too familiar with the first aid kit and the bottle of Scotch under Shaw’s sink, and as much as Shaw liked to scold her for it, she was glad that Root showed up at her door when she was in need of help. Root had a way of making it seem like she would jump on any chance to drop by Shaw’s unannounced, but Shaw knew better than to take it for granted. Root was a proud woman; she didn’t easily admit to vulnerability.

It wasn’t the first time she relied on Shaw to patch her up after a gunfight, and it wouldn’t be the last, but that night was different somehow. Something changed between them. Or maybe just within Shaw.

After Root’s shoulder was all stitched up and hoisted up into a sling, she curled up on the dark green velvet couch like a cat. Shaw remembers looking at her sitting there, folded up in the corner against a salmon embroidered pillow like no one could possibly belong there more than Root. It was as if the couch had materialized there with her, and nobody but Root had ever sat on it before. She was at home there, on her cozy end of that couch, possibly more than she was anywhere else at that moment in time. She had probably picked it out herself - that horrific couch, the ugly pillows it was covered in, the colorful prints on the walls and funny lamp shades - knowing how much Shaw would hate it, the whole place, forcing Shaw to think of her every time she turned on the light or sat down anywhere within these walls. The conniving piece of shit. 

But kind of endearing, too.

She sat there, gratefully reaching with her good arm for the mug of Scotch-spiced tea Shaw handed her. Normally during Root's visits, she would be in a more talkative state, and if not that, her mouth would be otherwise occupied - on Shaw’s own, or on her neck, over her chest, or down a bit farther. Nights with Root were never boring, never quiet. But that one was.

When it became apparent that Root wasn’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon, Shaw ordered a large menu of Indian food and turned on National Geographic Wild before settling in on the opposite end of the couch. 

It wasn’t a big couch. It was kind of impossible for their feet not to end up touching in the middle. Shaw sighed as she accepted this fact - she wasn’t going to sit with both feet on the ground like a perfect mannequin in her own damn house, after all - and awaited a dumb joke about intimacy from Root’s tongue. 

It didn’t come. She checked to see if Root hadn’t passed out, if she hadn’t reacted to her tea sedative a bit too effectively, but she hadn’t. She just sat there, holding the mug to her chest. She caught Shaw’s eyes and smiled. Not one of those asshole grins that Shaw could never forget even if she wanted to, but a small, contained twitch of the corners of her lips. Then she hooked her foot over Shaw’s ankle gently, and returned her attention to the pack of tigers on the tv. 

When the food arrived, Shaw made Root sit at the coffee table with her plate. Ugly or not, she wasn’t gonna look at a curry-stained couch for however longer she would be staying there. Which didn’t turn out to be very long. Either way, Root was content kneeling on the floor as she ate, sighing and moaning in delight at the sweet spices in her creamy dish. Shaw didn’t even pretend that that annoyed her. Root had probably picked that peeving little habit up from Shaw herself. It was nice to hear she wasn’t in too much pain or gloom to enjoy her favorite food.

She kept eating even after Shaw was done, which was as exceptional as her silence the rest of the night. Martine’s fox hunt wore out her body as much as her mind, and she didn’t hold back on refueling. 

When she finally sat back on the couch, she scooted over to the middle and gave Shaw a look. Shaw frowned in confusion, trying to figure out what it was she wanted from her. It was easier to know when she just spoke all of her nerdy and dirty thoughts aloud. She looked helpless there, on the edge of the seat, her hurt arm hugged to her chest, a tired look in her eyes. After a moment, Shaw thought she got the message, and with a sigh and a mild eye roll, heaved her arm over the back of the couch and went back to staring at the tv. It had meerkats on now.

Root nestled up against her side and lay her head on her shoulder without awaiting a reaction. This unnerved Shaw. They had never done anything like that before. There was hardly ever any touching between them unless it was sexual, and this was a lot of it at once. But somehow, Root knew she could get away with it, and Shaw realized with a bit of a shock that it was true. She didn’t feel an urge to push her back to her own side of the couch, or squirm out from under her. She just felt… warm, with Root’s feverish body heat covering her side.

“I thought today might be the end,” Root croaked when the meerkats made place for a commercial break.

“Hmm?”

“I thought I was gonna die. I was sure I would, at one point.” She spoke softly, but her voice reverberated against Shaw’s collarbone, and she heard her well enough. 

Shaw swallowed uncomfortably. She was suddenly highly aware Root could feel it, as close as she was, and started to regret silently agreeing to this level of proximity. This was a conversation to be held at comfortable distance, if to be had at all.

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Good,” Shaw said with a nod, eyes still trained on the tv as if she couldn’t miss a fraction of the Folgers commercial that was on.

“The thing is…” Root lifted her chin slightly, her nose touching Shaw’s jaw. “I didn’t want to. I was scared.”

“Isn’t that normal for you people?” Shaw asked, by ‘you people’ meaning people in general.

“Not for me. I didn’t care very much either way, before.”

Shaw bit her cheek. She could feel the weight of this conversation starting to weigh down on her. If she didn’t cut it off, it would go places she definitely didn’t want it to. She considered saying nothing, making a lighthearted joke, or just abruptly changing the subject to how tired Root must be and if she shouldn’t just go to bed while Shaw cleared up the dishes. Before she’d settled on any option, she said, “What’s changed?”

“You know what’s changed." Root turned her head slightly against Shaw's neck. "I’m not alone anymore.”

At least she was subtle about it. Still, Shaw didn’t know what to say to that.

“Not just you,” Root hurried when she realized she had Shaw cornered, both physically and conversationally. “Her. Harry. Bear. Even John. Hell, even Lionel has made his dent in my armor.”

“Really?” Shaw asked. She scoffed at that, finally looking down at Root to see if she meant it.

“Well, it’s mostly you and her,” she admitted. “I just realized, when I thought I was done for, that I don’t wanna leave you. I don’t want to put myself at risk like that for just anything anymore. I know I have to, we don’t really have a choice at this point, but I just… I don’t think I could bear it if… if-”

She didn’t get to finish that sentence. Shaw learned very early on in their acquaintanceship that the most effective way to shut Root up was to just kiss her. Well, for Shaw at least, it had never failed. This was no exception.

It took a moment for Root to gather herself and get into it. Shaw didn’t mind. She had the time. And when Root reached up her good arm to hold Shaw’s face, she awkwardly hoisted herself up into a more suitable position. Then it was business as usual. 

Except it wasn’t. There was something earnest about that night, a hunger in Root that her splurge on food hadn’t been able to still. Despite her hurt and her melancholy, she settled herself over Shaw’s lap, pushing her down into the couch as she kissed her deeply. It wasn’t long until they were both grinding hopelessly, Shaw’s breath quivering into Root’s demanding mouth. Root’s hand twisted into Shaw’s hair above her ponytail pulled her impossibly close, while Shaw’s own hands roamed over Root’s back, her ass and her legs, so soft, so hot, even through the tight fabric of her jeans, it was unbearable. 

The moment Shaw pulled Root’s flimsy excuse of a shirt out of her waistband and let her eager fingers glide over the bare skin of her back, Root toppled forward into Shaw with at first a breathy moan, and then a loud, “Urrrgh FUCK!” hissed in pain.

Shaw quickly switched back from the wild heat that had come over them to doctor mode. She steadied Root, carefully avoiding her hurt shoulder, holding her upright by one hand on the other, and one on her waist. She instinctively checked for blood on the dressing over Root’s entry wound. It was probably fine. She had just hurt herself moving around too much.

“Okay, this isn’t gonna work.”

“I’m fine,” Root assured her.

“Get up,” she said, poking at her thighs. When Root didn’t move, she added, “Doctor’s orders.”

“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” Root quipped with a familiar grin. There she was. Good old psycho Root. Horny bastard.

She got up at last.

“I’m serious. I’m putting you to bed.”

Root pouted, falling for Shaw’s forged authoritative voice. She must have been really messed up if she simply let Shaw boss her around like that. “Will you at least tuck me in?”

Maybe for tonight, Shaw could turn that into a good thing. “Oh, I’ll tuck you in, alright.”

It was probably that, that makes the night so special to Shaw in hindsight. Obviously she had been in control during sex before - even with Root, the very first time they crossed the tense line between them in the CIA safehouse, but never since then. The first time, she was trying to win Shaw’s trust by putting her own fully in Shaw’s hands, a move Shaw didn’t like to admit was brilliant on her part. It had worked. But all the times after that, it was always Root who held the reins. Shaw didn’t mind this one bit. Root was a pleasure to be topped by; it was in her nature, and it very easy for Shaw to subject to her. No one turned her on and spun her out like Root did, and she had started to become okay with that somewhere between Anchorage and Miami, just weeks before Samaritan first came online.

But that night, Root let Shaw have her as she was, very still and patient, muttering words of encouragement with a hand in Shaw’s hair. She didn’t push or pull, no nails scraping open skin. She didn’t order Shaw to do anything in particular, didn’t even ask for more, or harder, or faster. She just let Shaw have her in peace. 

It felt strange in that moment, to do things her own way, the old way she did it with other people. But it was still very much Root splayed out beneath her, her pail, brittle body quivering in anticipation for Shaw alone. She knew for sure then, what she had suspected for a long time. 

Root loved her. She didn’t just have feelings for her, as she’d made ever so obvious many times before. She didn’t just want to have sex with her. It was a lot more than that game they played, the challenges and the rewards. Root trusted Shaw with her body, when it was broken and when it was aroused, when she was at her weakest. But it wasn't just her body anymore. It was her mind, too. All of Root was at rest with Shaw. There was a comfort between them, an understanding that Shaw admits now she never had with anybody else. 

What they were doing was more than just fucking around, and that’s when Shaw had to face it. It embarrassed her then, after Root had come and Shaw had helped herself to her own score over Root’s helpfully grinding leg, when she dropped down on the mattress beside her and realized it. This tended to happen when she slept with people more than three to five times. There was a reason she had a no-encore rule in place, it was for situations like this. People like Root, who grew attached and started expecting things from Shaw that she had no way of giving them.

The thing was, Shaw thinks, swaying from one side to the other as the subway sped into a tunnel, that Root never did expect any of those things from her. 

Root was different. She knew Shaw, actually knew her. She understood that feelings weren’t the same for her, and she knew that Shaw couldn’t love her the way she figured another woman probably could. She knew, and she didn’t care. And besides, looking back, Root was never planning to go search for that kind of love with anybody else. She didn’t need that sort of thing the way other people did. For Root, it was Shaw or nothing. 

She hates thinking about that now. Because even after all the pushing and pulling, the cat and mouse games, the four alarm fire was never a one-sided blaze. After all those months tried to a bed, stuck in a never-ending nightmare, trying desperately to cling to those simple memories to stop herself from going insane, one thing she learned was that there was nothing to lose with Root. There never was. Even if everything still ended the way it did, the one thing Shaw would change is that she wouldn’t have tried so goddamn hard to shield Root off of her when things were easier. When they still had the chance to be together, in whatever way could have worked for them. It didn't have to be so complicated. 

Maybe if Shaw had allowed herself more time with Root back then, she wouldn't be missing her so much now.

She’s so lost in thought that she doesn’t even notice the guys enter her subway car. 

One of them is tall, with a scraggly blond beard and droopy eyes. The other, walking slightly ahead of him, is short, with a clean shaved face but bushy eyebrows. Shaw notices them only when they start laughing loudly, standing in the middle of the car and drawing attention to themselves. They seem satisfied once their six fellow passengers look in their direction, each of them equally annoyed. 

“What’s up, sexy?” the short one says to Shaw. Shaw rolls her eyes. Normally she would agree, but right now she’s looking anything but sexy. She’s sleep deprived, nursing a little bit of a hangover, and clad in a big black hoodie that leaves absolutely everything except her face over to the boys’ imaginations. She even has the hood up, knowing that the camera in the top corner of the subway car is capturing her every move, and though she wasn’t planning to get started so soon with so many witnesses, these guys might make her glad she took the precaution. 

“I’m just tryna make small talk,” the guy says loudly, leaning forward and enunciating every word like she didn’t hear him before. Shaw keeps on ignoring him. Her silence will be less memorable to him than anything she could possibly say. The last thing she needs is this guy recognizing her as she follows him down the street later. He shakes his head and turns around, muttering something along the lines of, “Man, what a bitch.”

The two of them start making their way down the aisle opposite from Shaw. On the wide bench along the window, two girls are sitting side by side, looking at something on one of their phones, talking softly. Shaw recognizes their matching plaid skirts. They’re uniforms, exactly like Gen’s. She wonders for a moment if they might know her, if Gen even still goes to that school, what happened to her tuition payments now that Harold is… gone. But then she gets her head back in the game.

The girls pretend not to notice the guys walking up to them. Shaw perks up, planting her feet steadily on the ground, ready to get up if she needs to. For a split second, it looks like the guys are gonna pass right by them without a word, but Shaw sees the signal between them. They sit down on either side of the girls, trapping them in between their intimidating auras. Intimidating to teenage girls, that is. Not to Shaw.

The girls straighten their spines, moving to the edge of their seat and scooting close together. They politely try to tell the guys they’re not interested in whatever it is they’re trying to accomplish. Shaw waits, hoping that the guys miraculously find themselves possessed with common decency and leave the girls alone on their own accord. She has to stop putting so much faith in mankind. Of course that won’t happen.

Shaw gets up; she can’t bear to watch it anymore. She’s barely had time to weigh her options, what she can do that will keep the girls out of it as much as possible and won’t get one of the other passengers to call the cops on her. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Hey,” she says, leaning against one of the poles at the edge of the bench with her hands in the pocket of her hoodie. “Go pick on someone your own size.” She considers the guy with the bushy brows. The man could really do with a pair of tweezers. “Or… age. Or whatever.”

“So now you’re interested,” he says with an unpleasant grin. 

“Not in the slightest,” Shaw says. “Just leave them alone.”

“We’re not bothering anybody,” says the tall one. “We’re just having a nice chat.”

“Girls, are these men bothering you?”

The girls widen their eyes at Shaw and nod their heads.

She looks back at the guys. “Would you look at that.”

The other passengers are watching the scene unfold with interest now.

“Oh please,” the short one says, getting angry now. “Who do you think we are? Some kind of sex offenders?” He nods at his friend and they each let out a scoff.

Shaw pushes herself off the pole and steps down the aisle. “No, I don’t think you are, some kind of sex offenders.” She sits down on the bench across from them with her legs wide, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “I know you are. See, I’ve been keeping an eye out for you and your giant pal here, and I can’t help but notice a bit of a pattern. In your latest arrest report, it says the two of you picked up a pair of waitresses coming off the night shift on the subway, offered to walk them home, and on the walk there, you made a little stop over in a dark little alley. I’ll happily spare you the details,” she looks at the girls, who have protectively tangled themselves together in the middle of the bench, “seeing as I don’t know them, since you two refused to confess. Then the cops told your victims they were better off retracting their statement and stop trying to push for a charge. Any charge. Then they let you off the hook with a meager little warning. And so now here we are.”

“Yeah, here we are,” the short guy spits at her, just as the train rolls into a station. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“First I’m gonna ask these young ladies to get off the train. Just take the next one. Go.” She nods at the girls, and once they’ve awakened from their initial shock, they jump up and scurry out of the doors just in time before they close. “Then I’m gonna make sure that you won’t get to walk out of here as easy as them.”

The short one doesn’t even see the first punch coming. It’s funny, when they underestimate you like that, but it also feels a little bit like cheating. His nose starts bleeding like a runt, and his pal is too surprised to do anything about it. He stumbles up from his seat, right as the subway starts moving again, but Shaw is quicker. She kicks him back on the bench, and immediately plants her thick heel on his knee. It cracks with a sound so sickening that the other passengers wince in sympathy. As the guy sinks to the ground in agony, clutching his broken knee and whining like a child, the tall guy finally comes alive again. 

He grabs Shaw around the waist and lifts her up, God knows with what intention. Shaw uses the lift to grab onto his neck and hoist herself up. It really is like climbing a tree, she thinks, but then a ripple on the track causes the subway to shake and the guy loses his balance. Shaw lands on his back, still at a vantage point, but not the best one. She tries to plant her knee on his shoulder, aiming hopelessly for a pulse point, but it’s a lost cause. He wraps his massive hand around her ankle and sweeps her aside. 

Shaw has to duck away from a flailing attempt of the short guy to kick her in the face with his good leg. She knew she should have broken them both at once. She pulls herself together and crawls up from the floor. She focuses on the big guy again. He is sparring like a boxer in a ring, and Shaw would laugh if she wasn’t so fucking tired of this. 

She doesn’t waste time on martial etiquette as she kicks him in the balls, and as swiftly, with her other leg, knees him in his rapidly descending face. He groans, and- Oh fuck. She can hear one of the passengers on the phone with the subway security. She looks around. It’s always the white guys with blue collars who decide to snitch on her like this. Unbelievable.

She doesn’t exactly have anywhere to run off to before the train rolls into the next station, and the cops are already waiting for her. Maybe that’s why she shouldn’t have jumped to action so soon, she reminds herself. That’s why she was going to wait and follow them out of the train to begin with. Damnit.

The cops cuff her and drag her out into the daylight, and straight into their car. If it’s of any comfort, her numbers are taken down to the precinct too, in a different car, but it’s not. They’ll get away with it anyway, claiming she attacked them out of nowhere. And, she guesses, technically they’re right.

She’s even more annoyed when she realizes whatever precinct they’re taking her to, it’s not the eighth, and Fusco won’t be there to get her out. She’s in Brooklyn, for God’s sake. She really didn’t think this through. 

“Show me the footage,” Detective Silva says when she walks into the precinct. The young cop she’s talking to hurries to his computer and pulls up the video of the assault in the subway earlier that afternoon.

“Yep, that’s my girl,” Silva concludes, looking at the screen with the hint of a smile on her lips. It vanishes when the young cop looks up at her awkwardly. She points over at the interrogation room in the back. “She’s in there?”

“Yes ma’am,” he stutters.

“Yes Detective ,” she corrects him. 

“Yes Detective,” he repeats, but she’s already on her way down.

“You didn’t give those bastards a chance.”

Shaw doesn’t look up at whatever cop just walked into the room to interrogate her. She’s not gonna talk anyway, not until she hears the grounds they’re holding her on and gets to request her phone call. She memorized Lionel’s number for situations like these, and it’s come in handy way too many times now. She really needs to stop this happening all the time.

“You got some moves on you, woman,” the cop says, as she leans back against the wall across from Shaw. She sounds impressed. “I figure you had some kind of classical combat training, I assume. Government. CIA, maybe. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”

Shaw frowns. This isn’t some rookie, wielding their badge of power in her face with no conviction. This one is smart, probably a detective. Shaw looks up at the woman. 

Wait-

“Hey,” the detective says, squinting her eyes at Shaw. “Don’t I know you?”

“Dani Silva,” Shaw remembers out loud. “Well, isn’t that a mighty coincidence.”

“You’re one of Riley’s friends,” Silva says. “I don’t believe we were ever properly introduced.”

“We weren’t,” Shaw says definitively, but not without a slight smirk on her lips and a quirk of her eyebrow.

“You know my name. I think it’s only fair I know yours.”

“Seems like the only time you need a name these days is when you’re in trouble.”

Silva smiles, an expression that looks misplaced on her naturally worried face. “You’re not in trouble. Those guys had it coming. Besides, a friend of Riley’s is a friend of mine. What happened to him, anyway? I heard he went AWOL.”

Shaw swallows. “He died.”

She watches the information arrive on Silva’s face. She quickly slants her eyes down and straightens her back. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good cop.”

Shaw lets out a small scoff thinking about Reese getting scolded for shooting too many people on the job. She’d been so jealous of his cover job, up until that moment. At least at Bloomingdale’s she was able to keep a low enough profile to do whatever she wanted in her downtime. Being a crook was way more fun than having to do everything by the book. “He was alright.”

Silva steps away from the wall and seats herself on the other side of the table, folding her arms in front of her.

“Look, I appreciate the catching up,” Shaw starts, “but if you’re not gonna book me for the night, I have other stuff to do.”

“I get it,” Silva says. “You’re a busy woman. I won’t keep you much longer. But before you leave, I hope you’ll be able to answer some of my burning questions.” 

Shaw thinks it over. She would rather just leave right away, but, she supposes, “No harm trying.” 

“I’ve been trying to get those two back in cuffs for weeks now,” she points over her shoulder to the vague direction of the hallway where the guys from the subway are waiting for their charges. “And here you are, handing them right over to me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I appreciate it. The thing is, I’ve been busy with a bunch of other cases over the past month or two. Guys, or groups of them in some incidents, found unconscious in unsurveilanced alleys, abandoned places, hotel rooms, with broken knees and noses. They’re popping up all over the city, seemingly out of nowhere.”

“Weird,” Shaw muses, tightening her brow with a grin.

“We take them in for a statement and realize that most of them are already familiar with the NYPD for minor offenses, like assault or possession of arms. We question them further and take a guess what else they have in common?”

“Enlighten me.”

“They all claim they were attacked by a short woman, dark features, dark hair, dressed in a black hoodie. I’ve been looking for her for a while now.” 

“Guess you found her.” She smiles. She’s glad it’s Silva, and not some asshole on a powertrip who didn’t care one way or the other about her intentions. Silva’s a good one, tough and smart, genuinely interested in making the city a better place. She reminds Shaw of another detective she once knew.

“I guess I did.” Silva doesn’t act smug about it. This isn’t her big gotcha-moment. She’s just intrigued.

“Would you believe me if I told you they also had it coming?” She allows a small smirk on her face. She’s actually pretty proud of those… incidents.

“I know they did. Some of those men had been on my list for months. I would have been chasing them for years if you hadn’t slowed them down.”

“Glad to be of assistance.”

Silva nods. “Now, a  woman with your combat skills, taking on criminals twice your size in the most dangerous parts of the city. See, before I met you, I liked the thought of you just happening to be in the right place at the right time, doing this kind of thing as an exciting pastime. But now that I know who you used to work with, I recognize the pattern. You’re saving people the way Riley saved me, and you’re taking out the trash while you’re at it. And I’d like to know how you do it, because I know you’re not working alone.”

Damn. She was on the right track for a while, but now Shaw is harshly reminded that she is, in fact, working very much alone. The machine started spitting out numbers about two months ago, but she’s even more shy about it than she was before Root added her generous modifications, and Shaw doesn’t have Harold’s nifty little library system to help her figure out the numbers in a sensical way. She just guesses most of the time, and relies on her excellent recon skills. They still work as well as they did when she worked for the ISA, but she doesn’t have Cole in a van to whisper sweet target positions into her ear anymore. She doesn’t have Harold providing her with handy background information and escape routes. She doesn’t have John covering her back. She doesn’t have Root… doing Root things.

She has Bear, who has proven a valuable partner on many occasions, and a much more companionable one than most of the ones she’s worked with. And she has Fusco, who is supportive of her efforts to keep the numbers covered, but won’t let her abuse his time and livelihood like Reese and Finch used to. She figures he’s earned as much, and she appreciates him still covering her back with the cops. It’s just that he doesn’t have eyes everywhere, and neither him nor Bear know how to work computers well enough to get a proper communication system with the machine running.

“A good magician never reveals her tricks,” Shaw says.

“I figured you would say that. And I respect it. But seeing as you always seem to get ahead of me anyway, I’d like to propose an alliance. A partnership, of some sort.”

Shaw thinks. She wants to say she doesn’t do partnerships, especially not with cops. But she trusts Silva, and she could definitely use some help. It would be nice to stop getting arrested. Fusco could certainly use a break. 

She’s still considering it when there is a knock on the door. A rookie sticks his head through the door and starts, “Ma’am- I mean Detective, her lawyer is here.”

“What?” Shaw and Silva utter at the same time.

“She hasn’t even had time to call anybody,” Silva says.

I don’t even have a lawyer, Shaw thinks.

“I dunno,” the rookie shrugs, and he steps aside to let the lawyer through.

She steps in with a flashy red dress coat and an air of bold nonchalance, like she’s late to this meeting they’ve been expecting her at and daring them to say something about it. Shaw widens her eyes. She can’t believe this.

“Zoe Morgan”, Zoe states as she sets down her handbag - that looks about as expensive as Shaw’s car - on the table in between them, and reaches out her hand to Silva. 

“Detective Silva.” Silva sounds a bit thrown off by her sudden appearance, and Shaw can’t blame her. She’s a presence not to be taken lightly. Shaw can’t help but gawk a little bit herself. She’s just trying to comprehend how a familiar face popped up in her life twice in the same thirty minutes.

“I would like to hear the grounds on which you’re holding my client, Detective.” Zoe winks at Shaw. Shaw lets a little smirk through her confused frown. She’ll play along.

“As a matter of fact, I’m not holding your client. She’s free to leave whenever she chooses, and I told her as much before we started this interview.”

“Interview? What’s she applying for?”

“I just had a couple of questions, as I’m sure you would understand. She’s involved in several cases I’m trying to finish up.”

“I understand,” Zoe says. “But with all due respect, my client isn’t available for interviews.”

“Of course, Ms Morgan.” Silva stands up and politely nods her head.

“Are you ready to go?” Zoe asks, looking at Shaw impatiently.

“Uh,” Shaw stutters, jumping up from her chair. She gives Silva a two-fingered salute and says, “Pleasure to meet you again, Detective,” as she follows Zoe out the door. 

She follows her all the way out of the precinct before either of them speak a word.

“It’s been a hot minute,” Shaw starts. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but where the hell did you come from?”

“Walked right through the front door,” Zoe says with a smirk, leading Shaw down the sidewalk.

“But how did you know I was here? Are you even a lawyer? Because you’re sure as shit not mine.”

“I don’t remember you being so talkative. Honestly, I’d love to catch up over a drink later, but I’m only here to pick you up. Someone wants to have a word with you.” She stops walking beside a big black Range Rover with tinted windows and opens up the back door. She nods at Shaw to get in.

Shaw glances from Zoe to the car suspiciously. “Who?”

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“Get where?”

“You sound like a four year old,” Zoe sighs, impatiently tapping on the open car door. 

“Well, you sound like you’re abducting me.” Shaw glances inside at the back of the driver’s head. It’s a blonde woman, is all that Shaw can conclude about her. Her blue eyes reflect curiously in the rearview mirror. 

“Where’s the trust, Shaw?”

“Died along with all my friends.”

“Well, it’s time for you to make some new ones.” She nods at the car again. 

Shaw hesitates. Something about the whole thing is familiar. A pretty brunette dodging questions like no one’s business, asking her to step into a strange car with an unknown destination, feeling completely unprepared and confused. There was a time she wouldn’t have thought twice about stepping into that car.

But that was when the machine was still leading the way, and she trusted it to guide her in the right direction.

Then it strikes to her all of a sudden, that this is exactly like something the machine would have done back in those days. Zoe showing up in the right place at the right time, knowing Shaw was there in need of an authoritative figure to get her out, getting her into a car to take her to a secret location to talk to… someone.

...Could it be? 

No...

“Can I at least drive?” she asks, looking into the driver’s eyes again.

“I don’t know why we even got you a driver,” Zoe says. “She knew you’d say that.”

She? The machine. Zoe is in on it. Shaw’s eyes brighten a little. Something is happening.

Zoe opens up the driver’s door. “Sorry, Frankie, you’re riding in the back.”

“Seriously?” the blonde grunts.

“Her wish…”

“Yeah, yeah.” The blonde steps out of the car and gives Shaw a small nod as she retreats to the backseat.

Shaw settles in the cockpit of the massive car, not bothering to hold back a content groan as she folds her hands around the wheel, and waits for Zoe to take her place in the passenger’s seat.

Ever since the machine gave her that call at the plaza, she figured it was because someone started her back up. How else would she have known to contact exactly her , right there and then? When she received that first number, she more than half expected it would lead her straight to Root. It was the only thing that made sense to her. She had had her suspicions about Root’s death from the start, it hadn’t felt real to her. And though she didn’t believe in psychic bullshit, she thought that she would feel something, anything, if Root’s stubborn spirit had really left her mortal body. Of course she didn’t feel anything at all, and so she never really began to believe Root was dead.

Tracking down that first number, she looked around every corner and inside every car, looking for Root. If she’d have had to explain it to anyone, they would have thought she was crazy, but there was no one around to judge her but Bear. And somehow, Shaw felt even the dog sensed that they were looking for one person only. He just knew, Shaw could tell. Maybe she was going crazy. 

She held up the passive search for weeks. It wasn’t so much an effort as it was just waiting for Root to show herself right in front of her, pull her into an alley or a hotel lobby, barely miss her by an inch with a speeding car. Shaw was alert, at all times.

But Root never showed. Shaw tracked down her numbers through google searches, location tags, and bluejacking phones, always hoping for a little bit more help from the machine, but never really getting any. She followed them down the street, picked them up in bars they frequented, observed their workplaces. With what little intel she had to go by, it was easiest to just stay close to them and wait for disaster to strike. Stopping the crime partway through was still better than not stopping it at all. She fell into a routine with this. And it took her a good month to realize that Root was never going to turn up again.

Slowly she started to accept that it was over. She was on her own. Root was really dead, so was John, and since she hadn’t heard a word from Harold since the missile launched, she had to conclude that he was, too.

But now, as she pulls the Rover out of its narrow parking spot, she’s reconsidering that assumption. Someone is pulling the machine’s strings again, at least enough to have it boss people around like it used to. That, and the day after the machine first contacted her again, Shaw received access to a nicely filled bank account to take care of her expenses. 

She follows the car’s navigation mindlessly, thinking about who she will find on the red dot at the end of the route.

It has to be Harold. His body never turned up, even after weeks of radio silence. Lionel looked out for his description in the NYPD feeds and told Shaw he’d let her know if he found anything worth checking out. Chances were he had simply skipped town, though it had seemed strange to Shaw that he wouldn’t have contacted them, or at least let them know he was alive. Until now, that is.

The only other possibility Shaw can think of, is that it might be the guy they met in Washington. He showed some Finch-like qualities, as far as Shaw could judge, and him and John seemed to be on friendly terms. He was running the same gig as them in the capital, with his own imitations of Reese and Shaw herself. Could it be that they figured out how to make contact, and traced the machine’s origins back to her?

Or maybe, Zoe was just taking her to the machine. A special phone or whatever, some complicated way to contact her directly.

“Who’s she?” Shaw asks, nodding to the back seat. If they weren’t gonna inform her on anything useful, they could at least tell her that.

“I’m Frankie,” she said with a low voice, leaning forward to stick her head between the front seats. 

“I gathered as much,” Shaw grunts. “What are you doing in this car with us?”

“Need I remind you I was supposed to be your driver?” Frankie said, clearly still annoyed with her demotion. 

“She’s an old friend of John’s,” Zoe says, emphasizing the word friend in a way that makes Shaw cringe. “Like me. And you.”

“I’m not sure I fall into that specific category,” Shaw says, hoping Zoe understands she never slept with John and never would have in a million years. 

“Either way, we’re all on the same side,” Zoe concludes.

“And what side is that?” She pulls the car onto the freeway.

“The good one,” Frankie says.

Shaw sighs. It annoys her that the two of them seem to know more than she does, and yet won’t simply tell her what the hell is going on. From what she can grasp, they’re expected to work together on something, maybe a job that requires some jerk-bait again, like how she met Zoe the first time, but she doesn’t know how she feels about that yet. She’s been working on her own for two months now, and as much as she feels like an amateur sometimes, there’s something nice about it too. There were only two people that she could stand to work with, and they aren't around anymore. She doesn’t have the time or patience to get used to a brand new pair of coworkers. 

As she drives, she thinks of what she will even say to Harold when she sees him again. At first, when she thought he would call at some point, she was angry that he didn’t. Then that anger turned into acceptance of the fact that he was dead like the others, and she couldn’t blame him anymore. But now if he really is alive, that would mean he left her hanging all this time. Is she still angry about that? She finds she’s surprisingly calm at the thought of seeing him later. She’ll at least hear him out, maybe tell him she needs some time to think before she accepts whatever he’s about to offer her. But she’ll accept whatever it is. She’s dying for some proper action.

The navigation steers her off the main road right before it enters the Queensboro bridge. She was kind of expecting the drive to take them to Manhattan, maybe the subway or even the old library. 

“Is this right?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Zoe says with a shrug, looking around curiously as well.

“It took us straight to you before,” Frankie says with a nod to the screen in the dashboard. 

Shaw slows down the car as they drive along the East River. She remembers now. They’re not going to any cozy inside location. The waypoint stops right at the edge of the park that runs under the bridge. 

And there’s someone standing out in the field, too far away for Shaw to make out who it is. The only thing she can tell for sure, is that it’s not Harold. Or any man, for that matter.

She pulls the car onto the grass to park. The figure on the field turns around. 

Shaw’s jaw drops. 

No fucking way.

She sits with her hands squeezed around the steering wheel, paralyzed. Her mind must be playing tricks on her. She feels her brow trembling, her throat goes dry.

“Damn, are you okay?” Frankie asks, putting a hand to Shaw’s shoulder. 

The touch shakes her out of her stupor. 

“Do we need to come with?” Zoe asks, glancing at her with worry.

“No,” Shaw says, and she moves to get out of the car immediately. She slams the door shut behind her and starts walking over to the woman with quick strides. The smile on her face grows with every step Shaw takes. It’s her… It’s really her.

“Shaw…” Root sighs through her smile. She has one hand in the pocket of her coat, and the other over her heart. Her hair floats off in the breeze like she’s some kind of painting, or the star of a shampoo commercial. 

Shaw stops in her tracks, some three feet away from her. She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. She just shakes her head instead.

“Shaw, I am so fucking sorry,” Root starts. Her smile fades into something even more expressive, and there are tears in her eyes. 

Shaw looks her up and down. She hasn’t blinked in so long that her eyes are starting to hurt. She takes in every part of Root from a safe distance, trying to remember her. Trying to gauge if this is real.

“I wanted to call you the second I woke up in the hospital, but she wouldn’t let me. She had me taken to a private recovery center outside the city. I wanted to call you, I wanted you there with me, I was so mad, Shaw, but she insisted that all of you needed to believe I was gone. And I guess she was right, because we won, but then right as I was better, she died and I had no way of finding you again. I searched all over the place for you, you have to believe me. I didn’t even know if you were still in town, or even still alive, but ever since I started her back up I’ve been trying to make her find you, that was my first priority-”

She’s promptly cut off when Shaw snaps out of her paralysis. She takes the last couple of steps over to Root, grabs her face in both hands, and pulls her down. Their lips crash together with more force than Shaw had intended, or maybe not enough. 

Root recovers from her shock quickly, and puts one arm around Shaw’s waist and the other over her shoulders, pulling her against herself. 

Shaw lets go of her lips to have another look at her. Root is crying and smiling like an idiot. Shaw sighs out a laugh and just shakes her head again. Then she buries her face in the crook of Root’s neck, her fist clutching the shoulder pad of Root’s jacket. She breathes in the scent of Root, her hair and her skin, as Root slowly sways them from side to side. It’s corny as hell, but fuck if Shaw cares. She revels in every second of it.

“I thought you’d be pissed,” Root says quietly after a while. 

“Oh I am,” Shaw huffs. She loosens her grip on Root and her jacket, and leans back a little, to make room for her finger pointing threateningly at Root’s face. “You pull something like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

“I know,” Root croons. “I know.” She kisses Shaw again, softly.

Then she pulls away and says, “I’m starting to regret bringing an audience for this.”

Shaw looks over her shoulder. She’d almost forgotten about Zoe and Frankie, who are now standing up against the side of the car, watching them. Zoe waves when she sees Shaw turn. Shaw rolls her eyes.

“Then why didn’t you just come pick me up yourself?”

“I only found you today when they detained you and tried to run your fingerprints,” Root explains as they start walking back to the car. “Of course they didn’t find any matches, seeing as you’re legally dead - which makes it very hard to find you without the help of a properly running ASI, I’ve come to realize - but I managed to retrieve your prints from your ISA file weeks ago. Perfect match. Only I lost my FBI badge along with all my other credentials that might have gotten you out of there. So I sent over someone who didn’t have to pretend.”

Shaw gawks at her with a lazy smile on her lips.

“Quite the friendly reunion there,” Zoe says, looking smug. Frankie just looks sort of annoyed. 

“How do you two even know each other?” Shaw asks, pointing between Zoe and Root.

“I found her on a list of numbers Harry and John worked back in the day. Her too,” she nods at Frankie. “I figured I could use someone to help me with some of the legal aspects of rebooting the machine.”

“Illegal, more like,” Zoe corrects her.

“Semantics,” Root shrugs. “She’s proven herself very useful. Did you know Zoe helped the boys track me down when I was still the bad guy? She knew who I was before even Harry figured it out.”

“Smart girl,” Shaw says, genuinely impressed.

“Imagine my surprise when she turns up at my door five years later with a favor to ask,” Zoe says. 

“At least she didn’t break into your bedroom with a stun gun,” Shaw grunts. 

Root smiles. “I told you I changed,” she says to Zoe.

“Look, this is all very lovely,” Frankie says. “But I was told the point of all this would be made clear after we took her to you. So can someone please explain to me what the hell is going on?”

“Of course,” Root says. “Leave the car, follow me.”

The three of them stalk after Root, who crosses the park with big steps over the tall grass toward the street. There are a bunch of apartment buildings overlooking the river, and something that looks like an old warehouse. It’s there that Root seems to be heading.

At the large garage door in the front, Root fumbles with a keychain. She unlocks it with a groan, pulling at the key with her full weight and one foot braced against the brick wall. The door slides up with a deafening creak. 

“Ladies,” she says. “Welcome to the machine’s new home.”

Zoe and Frankie duck under the door first. Shaw stays behind, more taken with Root than the words she just said. She still can’t believe she’s really here, standing in front of her. Root smiles and puts a hand on Shaw’s arm, leading her through the door behind the others. Shaw leans into her a little bit. 

“Woah,” Frankie says. Zoe whistles. Shaw just gawks around her soundlessly.

The entire floor of the warehouse is filled with servers like the ones at Samaritan’s farm. Their lights blink in sync, and the sound of them is overwhelming. To the side is a staircase leading up to a platform where Shaw spots a desk with two laptops and at least three separate screens. Behind it stands a fridge and a bed.

“How did you even get all this stuff?” Shaw blinks. 

Root looks at her with a grin. “I borrowed them from someone who wouldn’t be needing them anymore and then rerouted the system from Harry’s old Playstations onto them. The location was the hardest to come by. I had to evict the squatters and the rats first.”

“Classy,” Zoe mutters, her eyes scouring the floor for any stragglers.

“What does it do?” Frankie asks, tracing her hand over the front of one of the servers. 

“It watches,” Root says. “Observes people. It spits out the social security numbers of anyone who might be in trouble or looking to cause it.”

Shaw frowns at how open Root is about this to a practical stranger. This machine was one of - if not the - biggest secret of the country, before it was exposed. Any news of it running again wouldn't sit well with the general public. How does Root know Frankie won’t run out and tell the first outsider she sees? 

“That’s how you knew,” Frankie realizes. A look passes between them. Shaw frowns. 

“I hired Frankie to help me with the numbers until I'd find you,” Root explains. “She’s very good with her fists. You’ll like her.”

Shaw looks Frankie up and down again. She looks back at Shaw with a similar frown, slouched against the server. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail, a black tank top under her leather jacket. Shaw gets a weird feeling, but she can see why Root would like her. She gives Frankie a sturdy nod, and after a moment, gets one back, before both of their eyes wander off again.

“So what are we all doing here?” Shaw asks.

“This will be our base of operations for a while, just until we find a place more central to our workfield. I have my eye out on some nice spots downtown, but there’s a lot more work that needs to be done before we can start out there without drawing too much attention to ourselves.” She eyes Zoe, who nods in agreement. 

“What’s the plan?” 

“Private security,” Zoe answers. “Pro bono organization. We offer help to those in need, all clients remain completely anonymous for their own protection. No one has to know our services are unsolicited. We save the day, no one asks questions.”

“Sounds fool proof,” Shaw agrees.

“It's not. Yet, but I’m almost there.” Zoe’s lips quirk into a proud smirk.

“Wait,” Frankie cuts in. “If it’s pro bono, where does our paycheck come from? We are getting paid, right?” She looks from Zoe to Root.

“I’m still working on that,” Root says. “But you have nothing to worry about. You’ll be generously compensated for your time and dedication to the cause.” 

“Nice.” Frankie purses her lips and pushes off the server to walk around.

“You’re paying me, but not her?” Shaw asks when she’s out of earshot. “That’s kinda rude.”

“What do you mean?”

“My paycheck. Or whatever poor sucker I’ve been robbing blind to cover my rent.”

Root looks genuinely confused. “I’ve been trying to wire small percentages of unwitting millionaire’s fortunes to an offshore account under tax pretences. Just until we find a better source to tap into. But I haven’t succeeded yet. I haven't been paying you, Shaw.”

“Oh,” Shaw mutters.

“Seems like you’ve got a guardian angel looking over your shoulder,” Root says, still looking confused, but smiling at the servers around them.

"I guess she's doing better than you've given her credit for," Shaw says, looking around with her.

Root hooks her arm into Shaw’s elbow and leans against her, that soft smile warming Shaw’s chest. “What do you think, sweetie?” 

Shaw huffs a laugh, and looks carefully around for Zoe and Frankie. Both of them are distracted by the blinking lights of the server boxes. Then she turns back to Root, and pulls her down for another kiss. A quick one, just because she can, and she wants to see the smile on Root’s lips that is bound to follow it. Shaw grins back at her.

“I think we’re back in business.”