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Root hums along, a slight warble to her voice, with the crooning of Trace Adkins coming from Finch’s computer as she stretches out on the floor, propped up on her side, next to where Parisa is jamming a large, fake syringe into her own leg repeatedly. It’s not often that she gets to indulge in her favorite genre these days, considering she’s around Shaw as much as possible and Shaw’s…not the biggest fan. And it’s much more soothing than the punk rock Shaw tends to gravitate toward. Or that terribly cheesy Duran Duran song she loves so much, even if Root herself secretly adores it just from the one time she snuck into Shaw’s apartment and caught her mid-belt of, “And I’m hungry like the woooooooolf!” That was…a good night.
Every now and then, Parisa looks up at her with a big, goofy grin and claps, dropping the syringe in the process, and Root can only laugh through her hums. So far, so good on her first time solo-babysitting. She’d popped into FAO Schwarz on her way over to relieve Finch for the evening and snapped up the most expensive play-doctor kit on the shelf. Judging from how Parisa immediately whipped the giant plastic glasses onto her face with a high-pitched giggle upon opening it, Root’s pretty sure it’s a big hit.
Her favorite Pandora station rolls over to start the next song, and she feels a little pang in her chest but hums along anyway with George Strait’s twang. Her vision blurs slightly as images drift to mind of a middle school dance with neon paper streamers hanging from the ceiling and half-deflated balloons and Root gazing from across the room at her dancing with some squeaky-voiced buffoon of a boy.
She’s pulled out of the memory by a not-so-gentle poke of her slightly damp cheek. She blinks to re-center and finds Parisa staring at her with those impossibly brown eyes. “Otay?” she garbles, then presses her hand to Root’s forehead.
Root smiles and pulls down the hand to press a kiss to its palm. “Absolutely,” she murmurs with a wavering smile.
Parisa gives her a firm nod and grabs up her bright yellow and blue stethoscope to press to Root’s chest. She listens intently for a moment, then pulls back and says, “You otay.”
Perhaps it’s just the already heightened emotions roiling around within her from this song, but Root finds herself swallowing hard. “C’mere,” she chokes out, and sits up to scoop Parisa into her lap.
"You nee’ ban’?" she asks and grabs one of the thick, plastic bandaids off the ground, then tries to wrap it around Root’s finger.
Root forces a laugh and shakes her head. “Just a hug, kiddo,” she whispers and presses a kiss to the top of Parisa’s head. Tiny arms wrap around her neck as best they can and they sit like that through the remainder of the song, as Root resumes humming along.
Some tune she doesn’t readily recognize kicks on next, and a half-beat later they hear footsteps from the subway’s entry. “Ah, hell, of course you’re listening to country,” calls Shaw’s voice, and soon the rest of her appears through the gate. She’s limping slightly, with gauze wrapped around her calf and a hint of blood seeping through to be visible.
Root nearly jumps up, then remembers she has an armful of Parisa. “Everything okay?”
"Yeah," Shaw replies as she approaches them, crouching down to ruffle Parisa’s hair. "Guy was a little better than expected with a knife, though."
Parisa reaches out to grab a fistful of Shaw’s jacket and tugs her close. “Mama sad,” she says, brimming with seriousness.
The words give both of them pause, and they glance up from Parisa to stare at each other. “Did she just…?” Shaw mutters.
Root can only shrug, wide-eyed.
"She hasn’t even called me mom,” Shaw huffs and leans back on her heels.
Root’s brow furrows. “You said you didn’t want her to…”
"I…that’s not the point!" She rolls forward onto one knee and hoists Parisa from Root’s arms. "C’mon, Ris, time to go home."
A sigh escapes Root’s lips and she looks down at the floor as she listens to Shaw walk away over some upbeat country-pop tune. She’s not sure what ‘the point’ even is but she can only imagine, gruffness aside, that Shaw’s a little stung at Parisa recognizing her as a mother figure first.
The footsteps pause, then she hears Shaw say, “You coming or what?”
Root’s head jerks up and she sees Shaw standing by the gate, both her and Parisa watching her intently. A smile bursts forth, and she climbs to her feet, leaving the doctor toys for Harold to clean up later. “Absolutely.”