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The thing about Team Machine is that they’re all pretty damn smart.
They’re intelligent-in different ways but intelligent nonetheless- and they know it. They work to their strengths. They’re efficient. They’re on the ball.
Shaw liked this.
Shaw appreciated intelligence: her patience was thin at the best of times and she had spent far too much of her life following the whims of idiots.
Harold was book smart that much was obvious. Shaw recalled her days of med school surrounded by intellect and learning and yet more than once wondering how the hell anyone would permit such imbeciles to operate on a living human. Book smart wasn’t everything. Still, Shaw appreciated it all the same and even she could see Harold was better than that, just as he could see her own talents. Harold Finch built the worlds first truly cognizant ASI: she couldn’t argue with that.
John was her kind of man. And by that she meant they had the same sort of smarts: street smarts. They were quick learners: fast to adapt and even faster to react. Combat was their lesson and the field was their teacher. They were nimble and quick on their feet and at their best unstoppable.
Team Machine was smart.
So Shaw really shouldn’t have been surprised.
The thing was, Root was something else. The thing was, Root was used to being the smartest person in the room. The thing was…Shaw often forgot.
If they were honest they all sort of did. In a room full of the smartest people in the room it never occurred to any of them that there was another kind of brilliance. Root was that brilliance, that beautiful combination of book smart and street smart: natural genius mixed with the determination of a woman who had to learn the hard way. Cunning and genius. Tragic and brilliant.
Shaw knew this. Objectively she knew Root was for all intents and purposes better than herself (not that Root could ever know that) but Root had a way about her. A way besides the pain in the ass (reformed) killer for hire who needed to fuck right off.
Root was subtle. (Shaw mentally sighed because there was a word never to be paired with Root’s name again.) She could be anybody and everybody and being anybody and everybody, Shaw tended to overlook what Root was.
So Shaw was surprised.
She didn’t notice at first. It was the small things and usually she was so focused on the mission it seemed almost natural the way Root effortlessly handled any and all situations (there was that intellect. The social type Shaw chose to ignore but spent most of her life imitating that came so naturally to Root. It was irritating) that Shaw would only notice back at Subway HQ and by then it was too much effort to ponder in any great depth. She would file the information away and vow to investigate.
It just kept happening and Shaw kept wondering until finally she snapped.
‘Deux verres de votre meilleur vin.’
‘Bien sûr. Est-ce que ce sera tout ?’
‘Et un filet de steak pour ma compagne.’
Shaw watched the exchange with a frown, waiting for the waiter to disappear before addressing the issue.
‘Since when do you speak French?’
‘Hm? Oh I took a class.’
‘A class?’
Root shrugged.
‘Peut-être plus. I was blackmailing a professor and had some free time.’
‘Et maintenant, tu parles couramment?’
Root’s eyes widened slightly but her smirk grew.
‘Why Sameen is they’re something you’re not telling me?’
‘No. Et je ne suis pas ta 'compagne'.’
Shaw didn’t bring it up again, at least not for a while, but it tugged at the back of her mind. Root was smart. Root was brilliant. Root was…
Shaw frowned.
This should not be bugging her as much as it was.
The next time it came up Shaw felt it was entirely the wrong place, time or…in fact she would have rather the topic never brought up.
‘скажите мне’
‘Root what are you doing?’ called Shaw, stopped from leaving the desolate warehouse by Root’s actions.
Root turned her head back to face her, gun still pointed at the fallen enemy.
‘She says he has some access codes we need.’
Shaw huffed but strode over, placing her foot on the whimpering man’s body and pushing him over causing a sharp yelp.
‘скажи мне, что я хочу, и вы можете идти. коды доступа?’
Root turned sharply to Shaw, that glint in her eyes that Shaw absolutely under no circumstances liked. Ever.
‘You speak Russian?’
Shaw shrugged.
‘CIA Root; Russian was kind of essential.’
‘ты полна сюрпризов sameen,’ purred Root.
‘Since when do you speak Russian?’
Shaw had a feeling that glint was mirrored in her own eyes from the way Root was looking at her and Root seriously needed to stop that.
‘I took a class once.’
‘Seriously?’ groaned Shaw.
‘I enrolled once in High School. мне было скучно.’
‘Right because that’s what you do when you’re bored. Learn Russian.’
‘Why Sameen are you impressed?’ cooed Root, the man on the floor between them long forgotten.
‘No.’
Shaw wasn’t impressed really she wasn’t. Only, she couldn’t help but be curious. Root was like a sponge: that infuriating soul that was naturally good at everything and what’s more, she embraced everything she learnt. She took a class and so she became virtually fluent. Shaw was intrigued.
The CIA had done her well and she was no idiot herself but Root was…
‘Reservierung für Frau und Frau Turing?’
‘We’re married?’ hissed Shaw, tugging and straightening her dress.
‘Make it look believable sweetie.’
‘Hier entlang bitte’ interrupted the waiter, leading them through the tables.
‘Danke.’
‘You speak German now?’
‘Just something I picked up from a contact in Berlin.’
‘Just something she picked up’ was infuriatingly nonchalant. How do you just ‘pick up’ German like it’s nothing? It was really starting to piss Shaw off.
‘Il linguaggio dell’amore. O è il francese?’ muttered Root against her neck as Shaw groaned and her head fell back against the wall.
‘Who knew you had a thing for languages?’
‘Fuck off Root,’ growled Shaw, not liking this new weakness but not exactly hating it either.
‘Se mi potessi dire di stare zitta, sono sicura che lo faresti,’ uttered Root teasingly, lips brushing Shaw’s ear as Shaw’s breath struggled to remain even.
‘Root.’
‘Dillo ancora,’ growled Root, biting hard on Shaw’s ear, ‘go on.’
‘I swear to God Root get on with it.’
‘Dillo ancora,’ repeated Root, softer this time, lips trailing softly down taught tendons.
She bit.
‘Root,’ groaned Shaw quite by accident and Root chuckled.
‘Così, Sameen.’
Shaw had a thing. And now Root knew about the thing which while another thing Root would never, ever let her forget it wasn’t as if Shaw didn’t appreciate what Root did with her new knowledge regarding her thing. Root was smart after all.
Still. This was getting ridiculous.
‘It’s fucking freezing how long is this going to take?’
‘Not long,’ came the far too chipper reply, ‘he said he’d be here.’
‘And when he is I’ll shoot him in all the places I have frostbite,’ muttered Shaw.
‘What have we said about using your words Sameen,’ chided Root and Shaw shot daggers.
‘Doesn’t mean I can’t shoot you.’
‘Men da som ville snakke med vår mann?’
‘Are you serious?’ groaned Shaw and Root raised an eyebrow, not quite expecting that reaction, ‘let me guess: you took a class? You blackmailed the Norwegian government? You kidnapped a Norwegian fisherman and just happened to pick up the language?’
Root chuckled.
‘Kanskje en dag skal jeg fortelle deg, min lille kinaputt.’
Shaw had no idea what she was saying.
‘Root I swear to God.’
Root laughed.
The thing about Root was she liked to know. To know everything: to be one step ahead and seven moves in front. She was brilliant and she knew it and she made sure everyone else did too in her own little way. So when Root took on a task, she took it on completely: impersonating a Norwegian model to gain access to the home of a wealthy designer naturally meant thorough study of Norwegian. Root thought nothing of it.
There were very few things Root didn’t know and even fewer times she had ever been outmatched (particularly with the addition of an all-seeing super computer to her arsenal as Sameen so often liked to remind her) but if anyone could one-up her she would have placed good money on Sameen Shaw.
‘منبیشازامشبخواهیدبود.’
Root stood in the doorway hovering, not wanting to intrude but curious.
‘بلهمطمئنم.’
Root frowned as the Machine translated in her ear.
‘Stop that,’ she whispered and She did so, leaving Root with Shaw’s unintelligible words.
‘امشب. وپیچنیست.’
Shaw shut off the phone call, not bothering to turn around as she addressed Root.
‘What do you want Root?’
Root stepped out from the doorway, unperturbed at Shaw’s perception.
‘Was that Farsi?’
Not ‘who was that?’ or ‘what are you doing?’ Root knew better than that (and the Machine would tell her in a heartbeat if she asked but she respected Shaw’s privacy) but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t intrigued.
‘Yes,’ came the short reply.
Root watched as Shaw made to leave.
‘Will you teach me?’
‘No.’
When faced with a ‘no’, which was not often, Root felt a surge of determination. She could, and would, do anything she wanted and nothing would stand in her way. Not even Sameen Shaw.
It didn’t take her long to find a course to enroll on and she began in earnest, snatching moments between missions and shoot-outs to brush up and learn because when Root heard ‘no’ what she registered was ‘do it yourself’ and Root never backed down from a challenge.
It took her longer than she thought. She had never really attempted such a complex system of sounds that she herself was unused to making but, she thought, now was a good a time as any to learn and she thought she could advance to Urdu or even Armenian if the fancy took her (she noted the slight Greek elements lingering and resolved to add that to her list.)
In any case, Root was by no means fluent and her phrases stilted-she wasn’t a natural at this- but, as she unlocked the door to Shaw’s apartment, she reasoned she knew enough.
‘Hello sweetie,’ she chimed and Shaw turned around from her spot before the cooker to register Root’s arrival.
‘What are you making?’
‘Nothing for you,’ grunted Shaw and Root pouted.
Root noted the plastic takeout containers laid out on the counter and realized Shaw was serious. She pulled off her coat, chucking it absently on the couch as she went to open the fridge and found her own plate of food no doubt lovingly prepared. She smiled.
‘مرسیعزیزم.’
Shaw’s head whipped round, eyes following Root’s journey to the microwave.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said ‘thank you,’’ explained Root lightly.
‘I know what you-‘ Shaw cut herself off with a growl, ‘شماخودتانراآموزشدادهفارسی؟’
Root shrugged, watching her food spin in the microwave.
‘A little.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to know what you were saying.’
Shaw’s gaze narrowed: who the hell learns Farsi on such a whimsical notion? Who the hell can just learn Farsi like that?
Shaw turned back to her bubbling food frowning: out of irritation or to hide just quite how…impressed…she was she had worked out yet.
‘Besides,’ Root’s breath ghosted over Shaw’s ear and she tensed, hands gripping the pan tightly, ‘it kinda turns you on.’
‘Root,’ growled Shaw in warning.
‘مندراتاقخوابخواهیدبود.’
Shaw didn’t reply immediately and Root lingered behind her, fingers tracing any bare skin they could find.
‘Food Root,’ growled out a very frustrated Shaw because Root was a little bit ridiculous but entirely right.
Root was already on her way to the bed as she called over her shoulder lightly.
‘I can wait.’
They lay side by side, Root brushing Shaw’s skin as her fingers traced light patterns upon Shaw’s back reveling in the warm heat against the cool breeze of the night; reveling in the way Shaw relaxed at the touch, breath even and calm as Root’s fingers wandered without cause.
It was strange, pondered Root, that any other time Shaw would have broken her wrist but here and now, tranquil and alone, Shaw had given her permission.
She treasured it.
She treasured Shaw.
‘گنجمن،’ muttered Root.
Shaw shifted her head slightly, lazy and slow and Root didn’t think she would see anything more content than Shaw stretched like a cat, idle in her movements just this once. Root would never stop looking at her.
‘I can understand you,’ grunted Shaw, tired words muffled by a face full of far too many pillows.
Root smiled lightly.
‘I know.’