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It was cold out on the balcony. Fifteen floors up, the breeze was anything but gentle. Root tried not to shiver, tried to focus on what Cyrus Wells was saying. He was thanking her for saving his life. Root wanted to laugh. It was her fault he had been in danger in the first place.
Not that he knew it.
Not yet.
She had thought about what she was going to say the whole time Shaw and been removing the bullets from her body, barely aware of or caring about the pain. She had planned at least three ways to do it, but now, out here where it was just the two of them, New York City outstretched beneath them, Root found the words lodged in her throat.
Cyrus Wells was a broken man. Broken because of her. And yet… also healed, in a way. This would break him again, turn whatever little faith he had left in the universe against him. She couldn’t do that, no matter how much she wanted the guilt to leave her.
Because that was the only good the truth was for. Her.
Perhaps Harold knew that too. He seemed far too understanding of her decision not to be.
Then Cyrus Wells was gone, out of her life, and yet the guilt did not leave with him. It stayed with her. A part of her that would never leave, not in this lifetime.
Is this what it felt like to be human?
Root wasn’t sure if she liked it.
The distance was better. Separating herself from the rest of humanity, it had always been easier. Except… she couldn’t do that anymore. She didn’t want to do that anymore. She wasn’t part of this little team, perhaps she never would be, but, in time, she knew they at least could be comrades of a sort. Something was coming. Something bad and Root was in too deep now not to fight.
“Keep ‘em dry,” said Shaw, suddenly in front of her. Examining the wound behind her ear, the bandages on her chest that she had placed herself a few hours ago. “Change the dressings every seventy-two hours.” It was a brisk check. Shaw, never gentle in anything she did, was surprisingly tender in the way she checked up on Root. It even reached her eyes and Root found her stomach flipping, a feeling she hadn’t felt inside of her for close to fifteen years. It unsettled her so much that she couldn’t bear it.
“I love it when you play doctor,” said Root playfully, smiling coyly down at Shaw. She froze, glaring at Root before roughly letting go. This was easy. The overt flirting, Shaw brushing it off gruffly. That she could handle. Root smiled as she watched Shaw storming away.
It was easier, yes, flirting just to mess with her, but that didn’t mean Root hadn’t meant it.
I love it when you play doctor.
~#~
Despite the late hour, the rundown apartment building was still teeming with life. Root didn't have a key, but she slipped easily inside as a questionable looking boy who couldn't have been more than sixteen exited the building carrying what could only be described as a homemade lance. Their shoulders brushed as she past and Root grimaced at the shot of pain that ran up and down her arm. The dull throb had now turned into a rampaging avalanche that she could no longer ignore.
The stairs were unfamiliar, but she knew where to go. She had memorised the route a long time ago, when this was just a farfetched idea that couldn't possibly work. Despite her exhaustion, she climbed them quickly. Besides, the elevator smelled so bad, that was likely going to kill her long before the injury on her shoulder ever would.
Apartment 25b. One bedroom, one bathroom and a lounge/kitchen area. Small but efficient. Affordable for someone who worked at the makeup counter, even if it did lack storage space for Shaw’s more than ample collection of weaponry.
No matter. It could have been worse.
They could all be dead.
And what use were guns then?
It was late, although Root couldn't be sure of the time. She never wore a watch, even before she had taken to switching identities more often than she changed her underwear, and she had become increasingly dependent on the Machine keeping her up to date with mundane stuff like the time. Except the Machine was quiet these days. Too quiet.
But in the midst of a war, that silence was a good thing. For now.
Judging by the look on Shaw's face - Sameen Grey, she corrected herself - when she opened the door, her unkempt hair that was oddly endearing, and the rumpled pyjamas, it was late. Very late. Or, perhaps, very early.
"What?" Shaw snapped before realising who it was that was knocking on her door at this, most likely, ungodly hour. Root smiled. It had been awhile. She had missed that grumpy face. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Root glanced down the hallway. It was just the two of them and she knew there were no security cameras - it was why she had chosen this building after all, so Samaritan couldn't see her - still she did not want to take the risk of being overheard out here.
"I appear to be in need of some of your more... special skills," she said. Shaw must have noticed her clutching at her injured shoulder because the annoyance left her face, replaced with a brief look of concern before that infamous stoicism was back in place. She gestured for Root to come inside, stepping back to make room for her to slip through.
"Nice place," said Root with a smirk. Like the building itself, the apartment was rundown; peeling wallpaper and worn away carpets, a couch that had seen far better days. It was tidy though, pristine even; the only reminder that Sameen Shaw did in fact live here. Sameen Grey would never have kept things this neat.
"Well, you picked it," Shaw said testily. "You couldn't have gotten me something a little more... upscale?"
"You can't afford upscale," said Root. She would have liked to have given Shaw all the home comforts that she needed, but she doubted that would make the restless look on her face disappear. Shaw needed to be doing something, not selling makeup to obnoxious New Yorkers. She was safe at least. Perhaps she could forgive the boredom for that.
Ignoring the annoyed look on Shaw’s face, Root went straight for the couch, shedding her jacket so she could get a better look at her injured shoulder. “Just make yourself at home,” Shaw grumbled.
Root smiled wickedly, making sure her teeth were on display. “Why thank you,” she said. It did what she had intended; deflecting Shaw long enough so she wouldn’t see the pained expression on Root’s face. It was her first dislocation and it hurt a hell of a lot more than she thought it would.
“I don’t suppose you have any painkillers stronger than Advil?” Root asked. She took Shaw’s annoyed look as a firm no. “How about some hard liquor then,” she suggested, “before you pop this back into place.”
Shaw stared at her for a moment, making Root think she was about to be left hanging with one useless arm and in indefinite pain, thrown out onto the streets and told where to go. But… if Shaw didn’t want to help, then she wouldn’t have let Root into her apartment in the first place.
“Fine,” Shaw sighed. “Just don’t touch anything.” Root smirked, wondering what Shaw had to hide that she didn’t want Root finding.
Pain dulled her senses. It wouldn’t be long before she passed out. Root forced herself to stay awake, knowing how pissed Shaw would be if Root was suddenly unconscious on her couch.
“Here,” said Shaw a few moments later, dangling a half drunk bottle of whisky in front of Root’s face. It wasn’t Shaw’s usual tastes, Root noticed. The makeup counter clearly didn’t pay for top shelf.
“Could you…” Root said, gesturing at the lid with her good arm. Shaw rolled her eyes, opening the bottle for her anyway and Root took an eager gulp. It tasted disgusting. She had never been a fan of whisky. At least it helped with the pain, especially when Shaw started prodding at her shoulder.
“It’s dislocated,” Shaw assessed absently, her fingertips digging in hard. No shit, Root thought, the pain making her grouchy. “You want to tell me what you were doing when this happened?”
Root closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She didn’t want to see what Shaw was doing to put it back into place. “Oh,” she said breezily, “nothing of much consequence.” She could feel Shaw frowning at her.
“Fine, don’t tell me,” Shaw grumbled. Root stiffened slightly when Shaw grabbed onto her wrist, firm but gentle. The unexpectedness of it made her open her eyes and she caught the focused look on Shaw’s face, her eyes just disclosing enough tenderness for Root to know she was in good hands. She had never seen Shaw like this before. Once or twice she had been there to check on Root’s wounds, to fuss, but this was the first time there was less gruffness than usual. Their eyes met for a moment, a sharp intake of breath that Root couldn’t be sure had come from herself, but she couldn’t imagine it ever coming from Shaw. “I need you to hold still,” said Shaw, looking away and back at Root’s shoulder. “This is going to hurt.”
“I can take it,” said Root, ignoring the doubtful look Shaw gave her. She placed one hand on Root’s shoulder, the other still tight at her wrist, pulling hard before Root had even realised she was doing it. The pain was excruciating and Root had to bite down on her lip to stop from crying out. She could feel tears welling at her eyes but refused to let them fall. Then suddenly it was over, the dull throb back, but still aching furiously. She should have drunk more whisky.
“You need to put ice on it,” said Shaw, disappearing over to the kitchen once again and Root was grateful for the few moments alone to pull herself together. She wondered if Shaw had done it on purpose or if she was oblivious to how much pain Root was in.
Her eyes closed again, she didn’t notice Shaw hovering over her until she felt something cool and soothing at her shoulder. “I hate peas,” Root complained, taking the bag and holding it firmly against her shoulder.
“So do I,” said Shaw, taking the forgotten bottle of whisky from the floor at Root’s feet and taking a swig. Root smirked, but Shaw didn’t seem to notice that they had both drank straight from the bottle. “So…” said Shaw slowly, frowning in concentration like she was thinking carefully about what she wanted to say next. But Root could easily guess. It was a conversation she couldn’t hide from no matter how much she wanted to. “Does this mean we’re back in the game?”
Root smiled, small and tired. She didn’t have the strength to put any effort into it. “Not exactly.”
Shaw raised an eyebrow.
“The Machine has me working, yes,” Root said, knowing Shaw wasn’t going to back down. She had to give her something.
“On what?” Shaw asked. Root didn’t answer her. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t really have an answer to give. The Machine never told her what she was doing. The big picture… Root couldn’t see it. Not yet. She just had to believe that it was all worth something. That every job, every mission, was one step closer to stopping Samaritan and getting their lives back. Clenching her jaw in annoyance, Shaw sat down heavily next to Root on the couch, bringing the whisky bottle to her lips once again. “Well what about Finch and Reese?”
“You know I can’t tell you, Sameen,” said Root. She couldn’t be sure if her lack of answer or the use of her first name annoyed Shaw more. “It’s safer for you all if you don’t know each other’s identities.”
“But not for you,” Shaw said, looking more surprised that she had said than Root was at hearing it come out of her mouth.
“I check in from time to time. They’re okay,” Root assured her.
“Is that what this is?” Shaw asked. “You checking in?” Root smiled. She was usually more subtle about it, kept her distance. But this way was much more fun. Maybe not for Shaw, woken up in the middle of the night, but it certainly was for Root. It wouldn’t be too hard to blend in at a department store. Maybe her next identity would allow for it if she wasn’t too busy.
“Nope,” said Root. “You just happened to be closer than the nearest ER.”
“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” said Shaw, frowning now in disapproval. “Samaritan could be watching.”
“Awh,” said Root, grinning now despite the way her heart was now thumping rapidly in her chest. The grin, the playfulness, all a tool to mask it not only from Shaw, but from herself. “You worried about me, Sameen?”
Shaw scowled. “More like worried about my own secret identity.”
Root tried not to flinch. She was putting Shaw in danger just by being here. Samaritan was always watching, searching, waiting to catch them out at any moment. Interacting even under the guise of their carefully crafted identities was dangerous. It was why the three of them couldn’t know about each other’s. It kept them safe, being apart.
“Relax,” said Root, rolling her eyes. It was more to herself than anything. “The entire nine block radius is a blind spot. Samaritan can’t see us.” It didn’t make her feel any better and she slowly climbed to her feet. Her arm still hurt and she was exhausted, but there was no time to rest. There never was. “I should get going. Work to be done,” she added, injecting false lightness into her tone. Shaw frowned at her, but Root was already slipping out of the front door before she could be stopped.
~#~
The next time Root required Shaw’s skills, it was early evening. The sun was still up and the drug dealers were out in front of the building. Root declined their offers to buy something and slipped inside. This time she didn’t even bother looking in the elevator, by-passing it right away and heading for the stairs.
Root plastered a grin on her face when Shaw opened the door, bottle of beer in one hand as she glared at Root.
“What now?” Shaw asked. Root held her hand out for her to see and Shaw narrowed her eyes at the bright red skin, raw and more painful looking than it actually was. “Haven’t you ever heard of a thing called the emergency room?” she asked, but let Root in anyway.
“I have,” said Root, not bothering to wait for Shaw to invite her to sit down. “But Samaritan might get suspicious about a fry cook with a chemical burn.” There was no point trying to hide it. Shaw had been a good doctor. She would know a chemical burn when she saw one. Shaw frowned and Root prepared herself for a torrent of questions that she knew she couldn’t answer.
“You’re a fry cook?” said Shaw, surprising Root.
Root shrugged. She hadn’t understood the choice either. It was a case of being in the right place at the right time for this latest mission. “You any good?” Shaw asked, surprising Root for a second time.
Root smirked. Of course Shaw would be more curious when it had something to do with food. “Honestly…” said Root. “Not really.”
Shaw smirked and rolled her eyes. “Have you at least washed that stuff off?” Root nodded. It was more help with bandaging her hand that she needed and she waited patiently as Shaw went to fetch her first aid supplies.
Wrapping a hand in a bandage securely was difficult, but Shaw seemed to do it with an eloquent ease. She was completely focused on the task at hand, allowing Root to study her carefully without reprimand, watch the light dancing off her dark hair, highlighting the red tinges to it. It looked so soft that Root wanted to reach out and run her fingers through it, but she knew that would never be allowed.
Shaw bumped the gauze against her pinkie finger and Root hissed at the shot of pain that throbbed through her hand. It was hot and stinging and Root desperately wanted to pull away and place it underneath cool, running water. Shaw looked at her sharply, concern creeping into her eyes. “Sorry, I’ll try to be more careful,” she said.
Root nodded and watched as Shaw carefully wrapped the last of her fingers with gentle care. It wasn’t something she was used to and she found it oddly comforting. The fact that it was Shaw taking care of her and not some random ER doctor was even better. Shaw really was a better doctor than she allowed herself to believe and Root really did love watching her do this.
“You’ll need to change the dressings regularly,” said Shaw once she was finished. “And keep-”
“Them dry,” Root finished for her, smiling. “I know. You should play doctor more often.”
“And you should stop being a pain in my ass,” said Shaw, her eyes rolling. “But I don’t see either of those things happening.”
“Maybe not,” Root agreed. But… they were at war. Injuries were bound to happen. In abundance even.
Root looked forward to the next time.
~#~
“Hi,” said Root cheerily, dragging out the word. “Sameen, is it?” She made a good show of glancing at the name badge pinned to Shaw’s dress and was fairly sure Sameen’s supervisor was buying it. If only Shaw would stop glaring long enough, that was. But, she supposed, the glare was better than the look of dumbfounded disbelief on Shaw’s face when she had first spotted Root walking into the department store.
“Yes?” said Shaw cautiously through gritted teeth. Root tried to contain her smirk and failed.
“I’m hoping you can help,” said Root, loud enough for the supervisor to hear. “I’m such a klutz. I went and cut myself on the door over there. You wouldn’t happen to have a first aid kit in the back would you?” Shaw narrowed her eyes, glancing now at the forearm Root was clutching tightly, noticing the blood for the first time. “I’d so hate to get blood all over the products.” She waved her arm them, drops of blood flying everywhere and landing on the makeup counter Sameen Grey was supposed to be manning.
“Take her through the back,” said the supervisor, hurrying over and wiping up the blood with a disgusted look on his face. “There’s a first aid kit in the break room.”
Shaw scowled at the back of his head but gestured for Root to follow her anyway. She said nothing and despite her longer legs, Root had difficulty keeping up with her as she stormed through the rows of counters.
The back of the store wasn't nearly as fancy as the front. The break room consisted of a small kitchen area, some worn away couches and a coffee table covered in Vogue magazines that Root doubted Shaw would even bother to use to swat a fly. It amused her just how out of her comfort zone Shaw was in this environment, but Root couldn't stop herself from being more than a little impressed that she had survived this long without killing someone.
Yet.
It was with murderous eyes that Shaw searched through the cupboards for the first aid kit. When she found it, she turned to face Root with a glower, opening her mouth either to scold her for being here or to question what had really happened to Root's arm. Root shook her head quickly, nodding her head slightly towards the security camera fixed to the ceiling. Rolling her eyes, Shaw gestured for Root to follow her into the bathroom.
"Ooh cosy," said Root once they were safely inside and the door was locked behind them. Shaw ignored her, rummaging around in the first aid kit for the supplies she would need before washing her hands. Root took the time to watch her, admiring the rare occurrence of Sameen Shaw in a tight black dress and deciding she preferred the casual jeans and a tank combo. Although, the rumpled pyjama look she had seen on her visit to Sameen Grey's apartment was probably her favourite. She wasn't in the least bit deterred when Shaw looked up, catching her staring in the mirror.
"You really cut this on a door?" she asked, gripping Root's arm roughly to get a better look at the wound. It wasn't too bad; Root was no doctor, but she was fairly confident it wouldn't need stitches.
"Not exactly," said Root vaguely. "But... it did give me the perfect excuse to do my weekly check-in in person."
Shaw scowled. "Weekly?" Root suspected she was more annoyed about the fact that she wasn't aware of this than she was of Root actually checking up on her.
Root shrugged. It was more like every other day if she could permit it in between her missions for the Machine, but Shaw didn't need to know that. "Harold and John are fine too," she said. Although she hadn't seen them herself in weeks, the Machine assured her they were both fine and settling into their new cover lives with varying degrees of ease.
Shrugging like their wellbeing meant nothing to her, Shaw began to clean Root's cut. She was rough at first and Root had to press her lips together tightly to stop herself from making any sounds that would indicate she was in any pain. Unlike the dislocated shoulder and the chemical burn, this was a good kind of pain. Mixed with the feel of Shaw's hands on her arm, the way the black dress dipped low at Shaw's cleavage, it sent a bolt of desire rushing through Root and she found herself staring at Shaw's mouth rather than watching her work.
The smallest of sounds must have escaped Root’s mouth because Shaw suddenly froze, her eyes meeting Root’s and darkening.
“Keep going,” Root said hoarsely. Shaw stared at her for so long that Root thought she was going to stop altogether. Eventually, she ducked her head again and went back to work. This time, her grip loosened slightly, and it was with more gentleness that she bandaged up Root’s arm. Her annoyance at Root turning up at her work unannounced had disappeared and she was in full on doctor mode; that focused concentration that Root so loved to watch now clear on her face.
When she was done, Shaw’s hands lingered on her arm for a moment, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.
“Well,” said Root, grinning playfully, “was it good for you too?” Shaw glared and let go of her arm roughly.
Oh yeah, Root thought, definitely was.
~#~
We have more to look forward to than death.
She had to keep running.
I hope so.
Every step sent a jolt of pain through her side. At least that one was a through and through. She couldn’t say the same for her shoulder, the bullet still lodged somewhere in there deep and uncomfortably hot.
But the life I've led, a good end would be a privilege.
Was this the end? She had lost Samaritan’s operatives several blocks ago, but that wouldn’t matter if she bled to death from the wound at her side.
They were still looking for her, which narrowed down her options to very little. She didn’t need the Machine to tell her that Samaritan had operatives in every major hospital and clinic across the five boroughs, that they were scanning the police radio frequency for any signs of a woman bleeding from two bullet wounds. It was only a matter of time before they found her. Sticking to the city’s blind spots was the only reason she had made it this far. But it meant the Machine couldn’t see her either. In essence, she was on her own. She tried not to think about how much that thought terrified her.
If the worst comes to pass, if you could give Shaw a message?
She had no real destination in mind. Had to keep circling until the Machine arranged a new alias for her with a cover story that wouldn’t get picked up by Samaritan’s radar.
This was a rough neighbourhood and Root kept to the shadows, staying out of sight, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding at her side. She had to keep moving, she knew she had too, but all she wanted was to lean against the nearest wall and slide down to the ground.
As if knowing her energy was failing her, the Machine buzzed an address in her ear. Two blocks away. Root thought she might make it.
I think she already knows.
Somehow she did, without even realising. The next thing she knew, she was waking up in the ER. Panic filled her, the instinct to run, until the Machine whispered softly in her ear.
Victim of a drive-by shooting.
Pastry chef by day.
Root let out a sigh of relief. The Machine had saved her, brought her to safety and, apparently, given her a new cover that would allow her to rest, recuperate and let her wounds heal.
We will win this war.
Unexpectedly, she had survived. They all had. As soon as the ER discharged her, Root went to see for herself.
She kept her distance from the campaign building, not wanting to arouse Samaritan’s suspicions. Harold was already in there, speaking with the number, the Machine informed her. It was Shaw she spotted going inside. She looked fine from this distance and Root felt some of the tension leave her, the tight knot in her stomach unclenching.
If we do, there's no chance in hell all of us will make it out alive.
Harold, bless him, looked surprised to see her alive and well. She also liked to think there was a hint of relief to his look, even if he was all doom and gloom about the Machine.
Then she stayed sitting on the bench, long after he had gone. Waiting. It didn’t take long for Shaw to emerge.
Root kept her eyes on her and something about her gaze must have alerted Shaw to her presence, because she turned and spotted Root. That same dumbfounded disbelief that was always on her face whenever Root appeared unexpectedly was back as she strolled towards her.
“You look like shit,” said Shaw.
“Nice to see you too, Sameen,” said Root climbing to her feet. Wincing through the pain, she fell into step beside Shaw as they walked down the street.
“Should you be here?” Shaw asked. Root shrugged and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through her shoulder, all the way down to her fingertips.
“You okay?” Shaw asked, voice laced with concern. Root grinned. She didn’t need to force the brightness that lit up her face and Shaw rolled her eyes. “I think I preferred the sad Eeyore routine,” she muttered.
“No you don’t,” said Root. “And I’m fine by the way, just a little sore. The doctors at Bellevue have nothing on your skills though.”
“Hm,” Shaw grunted in response. Root caught her glancing at her shoulder out of the corner of her eye. She was trying to be subtle about it and failing miserably.
“You can take a look if you want,” said Root. “But, we would need to go somewhere more… uh, private.” She winked, smirking at the scowl on Shaw’s face.
“No thanks.”
“But you’re my very own special private physician,” said Root, forming her face into a pout that did absolutely nothing to wipe the scowl from Shaw’s face.
“No,” said Shaw firmly, “I’m not.”
You have to be prepared for that.
One week later, Shaw removed her stitches for her.
~#~
“Ow,” Root complained, not caring how whiny her voice had become.
“Hold still,” Shaw said tersely, gripping Root’s arm tightly to stop her from pulling away.
“Could you be any more aggressive?” Root asked, her eyes on the tweezers Shaw was using to pull bits of glass out of her arm.
“I thought you liked it rough,” said Shaw and immediately froze. Root’s eyes darted to her face and she grinned at the sight of widened eyes. Shaw cleared her throat awkwardly. “I’m almost done.” Shame. Despite the way Shaw was pulling bits of glass from her arm, Root was enjoying herself.
“How did you manage this anyway?” Shaw asked, back to focusing on what she was doing. The light from the subway car was pretty poor and she had to bend her head down low to get a good look at Root’s arm.
Root shrugged and Shaw glared at her for moving again. “I may have… walked into a window.”
Shaw frowned. “How do you walk into a window?” Root smirked and said nothing. Truth was, she could have avoided it, but then she would have missed out on Shaw fixing her up. And that was always fun.
Shaw shook her head, pulling the last piece of glass from Root’s arm and dropping it into a dish with all the other bits. “You need to be more careful,” she said, dabbing at the cuts with some rubbing alcohol to clean the wounds.
Hissing through her teeth, Root tried not move. “Worrying about me again?”
Shaw shot her a hardened look. “You’re worse than Reese.”
Well that was an unfair assessment, Root thought. It wasn’t like she had jumped out of the window, now was it? The comparison did not sit well with her and she sat sullenly as Shaw bandaged her arm.
"Anyone would think you were doing it on purpose," said Shaw when she was finished.
Root snorted. "That would be ridiculous," she lied, flexing her arm now that she was free from Shaw's grip. It was sore but usable. Okay, so that last one might have been a teensy tiny bit on purpose. "But," she added, climbing to her feet. "I'll try to be more careful next time."
"How about you just make sure there won't be a next time," Shaw suggested.
"Whatever you say, doctor," said Root as she walked away, grinning at the sound of exasperated irritation that left Shaw's mouth. She imagined the glare that accompanied it as she climbed the steps of the subway station and smiled all the way to her next mission.
~#~
"I think we're done," said Shaw, disposing of the last of the vials. It wasn't really a two person job, but Root had come to believe all the good things in life were much better with two.
"But it's still early," Root said, suppressing the pout that wanted to pull at her lips. She had dragged this thing out long enough and she couldn't think of a way to drag it out further.
Shaw covered up a yawn with the back of her hand. "I think you mean late." She did have a point. It was nearing four am. But Root wasn't tired and she wasn't really looking forward to acquainting herself with her new cover identity.
"You know," she said slowly. "I'm starting to feel a little feverish. I think I touched some of that virus earlier by accident."
Shaw narrowed her eyes. "No you didn't. Besides," she added, pulling her jacket back on, "symptoms don't set in that quickly."
"Maybe you should check my temperature just in case," Root suggested. She tried for the pout that Shaw never normally fell for. Perhaps it was because of the late hour, the near miss with the relevant operatives, but Shaw sighed and took her jacket back off.
"I'll get my kit." Root smiled. Remembering that she was supposed to be ill, she quickly hid it before Shaw came back. "Open your mouth," said Shaw. Root had a witty innuendo on the tip of her tongue but Shaw shoved a thermometer in her mouth before she could get it out. Root bit down on it and grinned as Shaw continued to stare at her with grouchy irritation. After a few minutes, Shaw pulled it back out roughly, giving Root barely enough time to let go.
“Old school, I like it,” said Root as Shaw checked the thermometer.
“Yeah, well I had to leave most of my good equipment in the library. Harold hasn’t budgeted all that much for medical supplies,” she complained. Root smiled. Shaw really was cute when she was being nerdy. Not that Root would ever dare say that out loud. “Ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit. You’re fine.”
“Are you sure?” said Root. “I think I’m developing a cough.” She coughed pathetically to prove her point.
Frowning, Shaw looked at her carefully. “I know what you’re doing.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sameen,” said Root innocently, watching as Shaw packed her stuff away.
“Yeah right,” said Shaw. “You know,” she added quietly; something about her tone making Root think this was difficult for her to say, “if you want to spend time with me, I’m pretty sure there’s less dangerous ways of doing it.”
Root didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t be sure if Shaw was offering her something or if it was just a general warning to back off. It had been a game for her, this coming to Shaw whenever she was injured, but slowly - and she couldn’t be sure exactly when it had happened - Root had come to enjoy the attention. The careful, almost tender way that Shaw would take care of her had been a comfort in these last few months pretending to be someone else every day. She looked forward to those days, those brief minutes when it was just her and Shaw.
Apparently she hadn’t been as subtle about it as she thought she had been.
“What ways did you have in mind?” said Root, offering Shaw a sultry grin, receiving an eye roll in return.
“You figure it out,” said Shaw, “I’m going to bed. Don’t start,” she added quickly at Root’s raised eyebrow at the mention of a bed. “Just don’t.”
~#~
Five hours later, Root was climbing the now familiar steps of Sameen Grey’s apartment building. She hadn’t slept much last night, thinking about what Shaw had said in the subway station and had come up with a plan of sorts.
Hands full, Root had to knock on the door with her foot and didn’t have long to wait before it was thrown open. She was disappointed to find that Shaw was dressed, but at least she was met only with a grumpy scowl rather than a full on glare.
“I took your advice,” said Root, “and brought breakfast.” She held up the brown paper bag in her left hand, the other balancing two cups of coffee. The scowl quickly lifted from Shaw’s face and she snatched the bag of food from Root’s hand without word. Root transferred one of the coffee cups to her free hand and followed her inside, kicking the door shut behind her.
“How did you know these were all my favourite?” asked Shaw, her forehead creasing as she emptied the bag onto the kitchen counter.
“There’s lots of things about you that I know, Sameen,” said Root brightly. “You’re not the mysterious ex-spy that you think you are.”
“Whatever,” Shaw muttered, sinking her teeth into a pastry and holding her hand out for the coffee Root was still holding. Root handed it over, knocking their hands together clumsily so that some of the still hot coffee spilled onto her hand.
“Ouch,” said Root, only partly faking it. She licked the coffee off her hand, leaving her skin hot and stinging. “I think I’ve burned myself. Could you…” she said, waving her hand in front of Shaw’s face.
Shaw narrowed her eyes, pastry frozen halfway to her mouth. “Seriously?” she said in disbelief.
Root shrugged and smiled coyly. “I just love it when you play doctor.”