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And it's alright / Calling out for somebody to hold tonight / When you're lost, we'll find a way / And I'll be your light / You'll never feel like you're alone / I'll make this feel like home
You've never really had nightmares. Nothing scares you. Nothing fazes you. You eat gun fights and blood and catastrophe for breakfast.
Samaritan has other ideas.
You're not entirely sure how they rescue you; you just know that they do. You just know that you regain some movement in your body, enough to crack open one eye and hold it open for two seconds before succumbing again, and you're in a familiar subway. The realisation of where you are provides you with relief you've not felt in months. You struggle against the body that's betraying you until you hear a voice almost as sweet as the poison in your veins (they're someone you recognise but can't place) and they whisper sorry sweetie and inject more drugs with a hypodermic needle into your jugular.
When you wake up properly the first thing you see is her.
Fighting a war then seems different. You're fighting to keep what Samaritan did to you under lock and key, but you learn it's not easy. You try not to show your internal war when you're around them.
Them means a man with glasses who you know saved your life and gave it purpose again; a taller, more broad man with salt-and-pepper hair and strong hands that always have your back; a dog who is pretty much the cutest thing you've ever seen in your life; a cop with an accent that humours you as much as his wise-crack jokes; and a lanky brunette with excessive flirting and psychopathic tendencies but you're pretty sure you'd both scorch the earth looking for each other. You have and would save the lives of these people over and over again until your last dying breath.
You almost did that of course; the stock exchange quickly becomes a subject of the past with Harold and John and for that you're grateful to them. It becomes a lot harder, however, when you catch Root staring at you like if she doesn't then you'll disappear in a puff of smoke. You can see the remnants of the stock exchange in her eyes every time you wince or go off on a mission without back up. She usually turns up of course, making some backhand comment about keeping you out of trouble, but the intent is serious. It's so serious.
Root becomes your carer post-Samaritan. She's the one that holds your hair back when you vomit into a bucket she's holding after you wake up; the drugs keeping you alive and healing not agreeing with your body. You find a lot of things don't agree with your body anymore. Your body feels strange and foreign and you hate it. You hate what they did to you, you hate it so much sometimes you want to take a gun and wage war against everyone that isn't your team. Innocent or otherwise.
But you don't, because Root is there. She's always there somehow, lurking in the shadows, watching you take your first steps out of the bed that's been keeping you hostage for a month during your recovery. Your legs don't respond immediately and you go crashing down. Root rushes to you and grabs your biceps in alarm, scanning your face for how much pain you're in. You wish she wouldn't do that. You're not broken.
Are you?
You're glad for your body having been in impeccable condition before Samaritan, because it helps the recovery move along quicker. Your own body betrays you in the beginning, and Root has to treat you like a two year old learning to walk again, but you'd take the scars they left on you over and over again if you could wipe the look off Root's face. She's meant to be happy and on missions and saving the world, not stuck babysitting you and your sorry ass. You tell her this when your speech becomes fluid again, but she just flashes you a smile and tells you to suck it up because she'll be there for you no matter how much you don't want her to.
You want her to. You want her. You want her so badly it hurts you more than the torture you were under sometimes. You want to whisper in her ear and kiss her neck and make her feel good, but how can you do that when you're unable to leave the subway without the fear that they'll take you away again?
It's unfair of course, because you made that choice yourself. You were the one who sacrificed yourself to save your team, and Samaritan are the ones to blame for your condition, but you still feel like you hold some responsibility for the pain your disappearance left your team in.
Months pass by and you're getting fitter, your body almost at its prime peak again. Root spends less time with you and more time with the numbers again and you're happy you don't have to catch her looking at you as often as when you came back. She still does, but sometimes your eyes meet and you smile and she smiles back and it gives you a warm feeling in your chest that you miss when she's not there.
She comes back from a mission she spent two weeks on. It's the longest you've been apart since the stock exchange, and it takes its toll on both of you. You snap at Fusco when he off-handedly comments about your grumpiness being connected to Banana-Nut-Crunch's absence. You growl at him like a feral dog and John has to escort him out of the premises before you can load your gun. Harold makes the mistake of asking Root whether she's having a nice time being out of the subway for once, and you hear her rather vicious reply over the intercom about how she was in the subway for a goddamn reason and Harold better realise she'd rather be with them than out on her own right now and if he doesn't then she will shove his keyboard-
Harold turns the sound off at that point but you've already heard it and the damage is done. Harold doesn't speak to you for days afterwards, turning slightly pink around the cheeks whenever you bring up Root. When she comes back, sauntering into the subway like she only went to the shop for some bread and not to France on a crucial life saving mission, you're drawn to her immediately and she casually sits next to you on the bench and tells you about her time abroad.
You're not entirely sure when you start holding hands during that conversation but it happens and whilst it feels awkward you're still comfortable with it on some level.
You're not entirely sure when a lot of things start to happen but they do. She starts coming over to your apartment for dinner; you have conversations over takeaway and argue over whether your new gun is better than hers. She starts walking Bear with you because she knows you like the fresh air and keeping active, but not as much as you like the dog.
You were only in it for the dog, you told everyone that would listen. You told it to yourself as often as you would let yourself believe it. Because when it comes down to it, it wasn't the dog you were thinking of that day in the stock exchange.
She starts spending the night.
Not in that way to start off with. Not really. It begins after the day you kiss her mid-sentence when you're sitting on a hard bench in a park whilst Bear runs after a tennis ball. She tenses against you at first, not quite believing what's happening, but you push against her lips harder and she responds just for a second before pulling away. You frown at her and she grasps your hand, squeezing it tight.
"One step at a time, sweetie."
You don't kiss her again until a week later when you're curled up on the couch watching some dumbass movie Root picks out. You had stopped watching it ages ago, barely making it past the opening twenty minutes, instead choosing to run your hands through Root's hair as she lies her head in your lap. She sighs contently and you watch her watch the film. When it finishes, she sits up and stretches and you lean over and kiss her again, but this time she smiles into it and responds quicker than before. You go to bed that night wrapped up into each other, the closest you've ever been.
She starts spending the night.
John doesn't comment when he comes to pick you up and Root's already at your apartment each time; he doesn't comment when Root asks you what you want for dinner over the earpieces you're both wearing; he doesn't comment when you casually ask him what restaurants he'd recommend for a nice night out. John's like the brother you never had and there's no one else you'd rather have stood next to your side on a mission apart from Root. Even Harold realises there's something going on between you and Root when you find out from Fusco's complaining that you and Root were AWOL last night when a number came up.
You were out on a date and you know Harold gave you the curtesy of a night off.
Spending the night turns into sex slower than you would've expected. She has been sleeping round about a month before making out turns into something more. You know she's been giving you space to recover but right now there's nothing you want more than no space between you. You stumble into your bedroom, lifting your shirt over your head as Root removes her jeans and discards them on your floor. You lie on the bed and she hovers above you, her hair tickling your chest as it dangles down. You've always loved her hair. She pauses and you're wondering why when you realise it's the first time she's seen you without a shirt on since and she can see what Samaritan did to you. You nip at her collarbone to tell her that it's okay and you're fine as she traces the scars from tasers and knives and rope and needles. You shiver and kiss her neck, feeling her pulse point. It reminds you that you're actually alive and you're doing this and Root's heart is still beating because of you, because of what you did. Without hesitation, you place a hand at the base of her skull and pull her towards you, giving her a strong kiss. Her hand splays across your chest and then your abs and she moves it downwards, running a finger under the elastic of your underwear. The movement spurs you into action and you take off her bra, immediately covering one breast with a hand and squeezing it. She gasps at the contact and a mischievous grin appears on her face and you're pretty much doomed from there.
"Let me make you feel good."
"You always make me feel good."
You did have a rule: three nights maximum and that's it, no matter how good they were (you never found anyone that good anyway). Root's an exception to a lot of your rules, but you'd found that out from the day she joined your team. You'd spent three nights with her multiple times without sex, and now with sex they're even better.
There's just one problem about Root spending the night.
Your nightmares.
The first time it happens is the fifth night you spend together. With the first four nights you're actually surprised that you don't have one since they're pretty much a regular thing. Then you realise it is probably something to do with the figure that sleeps on your chest like a cat and anchors you to the real world.
But sometimes Root isn't enough.
And the nightmares hunt you down.
Flames lick your chest and your own body is a prison in which there's no escape. Your brain holds onto the dream with a vice like grip and you're falling, falling too close to Samaritan and further away from Root and safety.
There's two different results of the nightmares on you.
The first is when the fear crackles through your veins like electricity, and every limb convulses in pain and torment and you lash out, making contact on her shin with your foot. She cries out but you're still under Samaritan's control and you can't wake up and you need to wake up. Not for you, but for her. To stop hurting her.
When you're thrashing in the sheets she realises the only way to wake you is to fight back, and so she straddles you, gripping your sides with her thighs. Your hips rear upwards but she takes advantage of your tormented state and presses down hard on your chest to keep you still. She strains to keep your arms under control and you feel your fist make contact with her shoulder.
"Shaw, wake up." her voice is raw and you ache so badly. Your pulse is beating so quickly and forcefully, you can feel the palpitation in every artery and the throbbing in your head is so painful you feel like you're going to explode.
"Sam."
Your eyelids fly open and you see her lithe body on top of you. Her eyes are fixed on yours; her gaze too intense for you to handle, and so you drop it. You mumble her name and paw at her waist, yearning for her gentle touch. She climbs off your thighs and awkwardly shuffles until she tucks her head under your jaw and wraps an arm around your stomach.
"Root."
"I'm here."
Her name seems to be the only word in your vocabulary, but it soothes you and calms her down also. She needs to know you're okay as much as you need to know she's safe.
The second type of nightmare is when it's almost impossible to tell you're having one.
Root always knows.
This time your body seems to do the opposite: it goes rigid in a state of shock and you're left there in a state of sleep paralysis, an immovable mesh of nerves and muscle. You hate this the most, you'd much rather act out in aggression so at least you're fighting. Instead, you're frozen in your own version of hell.
When this happens, Root is there again to coax you back. She forces you to sit up, and you try and command your taut muscles to follow her instructions. You're wound so tight your jaw clenches in agony and Root repeats your name until you're able to grunt back at her. She rubs your back as you gasp for air, forcing your breathing to go back to normal. But what is normal? Normal for you is opposites in night and day; in the light you're calm and collected and can shoot a man in the kneecap with a sniper from a hundred yards away; in the dark you become the shadow of the monster they created you to be.
Root presses a light kiss to your shoulder and you get shivers down your spine that are nothing to do with nightmares.
Some nights she just holds you as you wait for the moment to pass, your head buried into the crook of her neck as you breathe her in and the scent rushes through your bloodstream and expels the venom left by your nightmare. By Samaritan. By your sacrifice.
Some nights when you're being particularly tough she yanks you out of bed and into the shower, whether you're naked or not. She turns the handle so ice cold water bursts out of the shower head and cascades down your back, shocking you into being alert. The merciless jet of water soaks you right through to your bones. You stand there shaking and grinding your teeth together. When she deems that you've had enough, she turns it off and lets you drip-dry for a few minutes before grabbing a towel and running it over your body.
There's normal nights. Nights that aren't scarred by nightmares and PTSD. Despite the windows being closed due to the harsh New York winter winds beginning to rush through the sky like the crowds of people that inhabit the city, the bedroom is stifling, and there's a film of sweat fusing your naked body to hers. You're always too hot-blooded in bed no matter the season. She's the opposite, however; her freezing feet on your body surprises you more than you like.
"Sam?"
"Hmm?"
It's been a year since your rescue and you can get by a whole week sometimes without a nightmare. Root is pressed close to your body after you've just had sex, and you are tempted to shove her off you when she says your name.
"Am I doing enough?"
You almost chuckle at her question but you can tell by the tone of her voice that she's being serious again. You sigh and pull her closer, and start tracing patterns on her back with your fingers. You lean down and brush her lips with yours.
"More than enough." you say and you mean it. You don't think you'll ever be able to convey how thankful you are to her. You're less of Samaritan's monster and you've been able to begin life as Sameen Shaw again.
"More than enough."