Work Text:
I turned awayfrom darkness to see daylight, to see what would
happen. What happened? What does a man want?
Power.
(...)
I thought of myself as a city and I licked my lips.
I thought of myself as a nation and I wrung my hands,
I put a thing in your hand. Will you defend yourself?
From me, I mean. Let’s kill something.
Richard Siken
Root says "I just couldn't bear it if anyone hurt you. Well, besides me," and Shaw hangs up on her. It's satisfying, and when Tomas slides his hand up her thigh she thinks about taking him to bed and there is nothing uncomfortable in her stomach or chest, so she does.
Full decontamination means clothes in black plastic bags on the bathroom floor, Root's bony elbows knocking against her shoulder as they fumble awkwardly around each other in the shower. They have never been naked together for non-sexual reasons until now, and it shows. Root gets clean with a brisk efficiency that takes Shaw back to crowded base showers and scrubbing blood and sweat and the lingering awareness of mortality down the drain with standard issue bars of rough soap. It's enough of a deviation from Shaw's expectations of Root that it leaves her off-balance, rushing to keep up with the other woman's clinical movements.
Root keeps sneaking glances at her while they dry off, watching the curve of her back in the mirror, the stretch of her arms as she reaches back to dry her hair with furtive, darting glances like she's not sure if she's allowed. Shaw tosses her towel in the hamper and brushes past Root, skin on skin. Root reaches out a hand to graze over her hip, then lets it fall.
"What the hell?" Shaw asks, irritated by her reticence. Shaw had laid her soul fucking bare hours before and now Root's acting like she's the one left vulnerable.
"Sorry," Root says. "Just wanted to see what my competition looks like."
"What?"
"You fucked Tomas; She told me. I'm just curious what sort of marks he left. I've gotta do better. It's a character flaw."
"Seriously?" Shaw asks, pulling her toothbrush out of the drawer. "No, never mind, I don't know why that's a surprise."
Root shrugs in the mirror, wraps her towel securely over her chest, the ends trailing across her upper thighs distractingly. "What can I say? I'm a perfectionist."
"You're arrogant," Shaw corrects. "And wrong. There's nothing to find. He was a perfect gentlemen."
Root tsks in mock sympathy. "That must've been terrible for you."
Shaw shrugs. "He made up for it in other areas."
"Hmm," root says. "Well. I guess I'll have to bring my A game."
*
Root asks for Shaw's help with a small time drug lord the next week. Or, technically, The Machine tells Finch, who tells John, who tells Shaw by way of a text message consisting only of emojis that Root is probably about to get in over her head in a concrete shoes in the bottom of the harbour sort of way. Shaw's never actually heard of someone being disposed of in exactly this manner, but she has faith that it will happen someday. Elias seems like a man fond of the classics.
Shaw shows up late to the drug deal because she had to go home and change, which involved a forty-five minute bus ride each way, but she'd rather be late than useless in four-inch heels and enough perfume to kill a lesser being.
When she gets to the obligatory abandoned warehouse the shooting has already started. Root is doing an excellent sitting duck impression on the fire escape, perched with her long legs wrapped around the ladder for balance like a spider monkey while she shoots with both hands. It's a fucking miracle she's not hanging upside down with her hair waving in the breeze, the fucking show off. There are also at least ten dudes with machine guns piling out of a battered pickup truck, coming to join there handgun-wielding, panicking friends in the warehouse. The way Root's shooting she's gonna run out of ammo in plenty of time for the new guys to take a leisurely stroll over to make mincemeat out of her. Shaw takes three of them out as they're getting out of the back of the truck, one kneecap a piece, three bullets, tidy.
This draws their attention to her and away from root, who, in an unprecedented display of fucking survival instinct, uses the opportunity to scramble gracelessly up to the roof and disappear. Seven actual threats (it must've been a damn uncomfortably homoerotic trip in the little truck) and four annoyances is possibly a bit much to handle on her own. Not impossible, but she finds herself getting backed unwillingly into the open bay doors and taking cover behind crates of what she really hopes aren't actually harmful chemicals like the giant warning labels indicate.
She's whittled it down to four machine guns when the screaming starts. It's coming from upstairs, and it's a man's voice, so Shaw dismisses it until she's dealt with her own main floor problems. She winds up playing the noisiest game of cat and mouse with the last two shooters-- they're all sloppy and overly-aggressive and she almost feels a bit of solidarity shame with her opponents at the embarrassing unprofessionalism of the whole thing. The screaming stops at the same time the last two guys book it out of the warehouse and to the cover of their truck, and Shaw's just glad to have the firefight over with, so she lets them go. She picks her way through the mess of groaning bodies on the floor and climbs the narrow, rickety staircase up to the little strip of offices overlooking the rest of the building. It's pretty easy to find Root. She just follows the literal trail of blood.
It's not Root's blood, or at least mostly not, which is a relief. The nerdy looking kid tied to the office chair and desperately not looking at the hammer Root's holding over his splayed hands is less so.
"So this looks... fun," Shaw observes, leaning against the doorjamb.
"Hi sweetie," Root chirps, grinning over her shoulder, licking blood from a split lip, eyes bright and manic. There's the unmistakable smell of urine coming from the office chair, and Shaw wrinkles her nose.
"And... Why are we threatening Dweeby McCokedealer, exactly?"
"I need the name of his supplier," Root says.
"I fucking told you!" the kid yelps. "He just said his name was Ivan. No last name, no face-to-face meetings. There's a delivery every second Wednesday with the frozen foods truck that unloads at the docks. Big yellow logo like a hat."
"Hmm," Root says, twirling the hammer between her palms. "Did you say that? I'm hard-of-hearing, you know, sometimes I miss these things."
"Root," Shaw says, trying not to sound warning and probably failing. Fuck Harold and John and their gross morality anyway.
Root takes a step to the side, which is when Shaw gets a look at the rusty nail poking out of the soft hollow of the kid's shoulder. It's still bleeding copiously, and just the head is visible against his shirt. That explains the screaming, then.
"I hope you're up-to-date on your tetanus shot," Shaw says wryly. "Are you gonna be done any time soon, Root, or should I leave you two alone?"
"Don't leave, what the fuck?" the kid babbles.
"Aww, Sameen, you don't let me have any fun."
"Alaska," says Shaw. "Also, the fucking makeup counter. Besides, I thought you were all reformed, on the side of the angels, bla bla bla? What, She stops talking to you and you immediately revert? Weak."
It's dirty pool, bringing The Machine into this, but root's got that slightly unhinged gleam in her eyes, the kind Shaw first saw with a hot iron a few inches away from her skin, and there's still a chance one of the last two machine gun assholes is calling for backup. The tip of Root's tongue pokes out the corner of her mouth while she studies Shaw. Shaw will never admit it, but she kind of hates the way Root looks at her when she's really looking at her. It brings to mind child psychologists and commanding officers and the itchy exposed concern that maybe she's seeing something of which Shaw herself is unaware.
"You're the last person I'd expect to be worried for an innocent civilian, Sam." She makes little air quotes around 'innocent'. Her nails are a sparkly gold and there's dried blood crusted on the back of her knuckles. "You haven't got Harold's squeamishness or John guilt complex, and I know for a fact you've done far worse to people than I ever have. So why does this bother you?"
"You're wasting time," Shaw says. "It's unprofessional. I've killed and tortured lots of people, yeah, and I didn't feel anything. Including pleasure. As soon as you start enjoying it, you start to get sloppy. Ask John about his old partner some time."
Root sighs. "All work and no play, etc. And I know about Stanton. I think we would've gotten along if not for her spectacularly off-putting willingness to take orders unquestioningly."
Shaw stares back, unblinking. "Is that supposed to be an insult? I already know you pretty much think I'm the opposite of off-putting. And I asked questions when I thought it was relevant."
When they killed your friend. Better late than never, I guess."
Shaw kicks the wall behind her in frustration. "I'm leaving. I hope it's been a real satisfying evening, hurting some whiny kid who is literally sitting in his own piss and trying to hurt me with emotional bullshit that's obviously not gonna work. I'd say you've lost your touch, but you'd probably take that as a challenge and I really don't get paid enough to follow you around cleaning up your messes."
She walks half the distance back to her shitty apartment fuelled by something like anger --she wants to slam doors and drive over the speed limit away from the city until someone notices and tries to drag her back-- the closest association she can come up with is anger, but it doesn't quite seem to fit. She takes a cab the rest of the way home and sulks over a glass of scotch and a frozen pizza and doesn't sleep.
*
The next time they work a number together Shaw goes straight from work. It's still ten PM by the time she's glaring her way past the bouncers outside a club she's ten years too old for, but the first thing she sees when she comes in is Lionel looking a hundred times as uncomfortable as she feels and holding a plastic cup of beer which he hands over as soon as she gets in range.
"Who's our guy?" she asks.
"Girl," Lionel corrects. "From what Glasses can tell the city's dragging their heels and the Social Security Administration's trapped in the red tape. Jessica Smith. Certified accountant by day, certified accountant by night. I'm glad I'm not the only one who feels like I've never been cool enough for this club."
"What's the matter, Lionel, traumatic memories of not being allowed to sit at the cool kids' lunch table?"
"Yeah yeah."
Finch's voice filters over her coms, almost drowned out by the pounding base and synthesised warbling that apparently counts as music. "Miss Shaw, the man behind the bar on your far left is Miss Smith's step-brother."
"And I'm just outside watching her boss making a cash deal for what may or may not be drugs," Root says. "Hi, kids. Miss me?"
"No," Shaw says automatically.
"I love it when you play hard to get, Sameen. Now go mingle, Lionel can keep an eye on the cousin but the two of you are going to start attracting attention if you keep lurking together."
Shaw drains her beer and stalks out onto the dancefloor, keeping an eye on Smith where she's swaying awkwardly amongst a group of friends. It doesn't take long for someone to get handsy, and if anyone asks Shaw definitely breaks his finger accidentally. It's at least fifteen minutes before her solo dancing starts to attract looks, so she works her way close up into another single dancer's space, tipping her head in invitation. He's only a few inches taller than her (shorter than Root) and he looks reassuringly closer to thirty than most everyone else. She doesn't pay him much mind once they've started moving against each other, more focused on tracking Smith where she's started heading towards the bar, looking pissed.
"Incoming, Lionel," she murmurs.
"I see her."
The song changes and Shaw and her partner are swept up in a tight knot of drunk kids whooping and cheering. She loses sight of Smith, pushes backwards in an attempt to get out of the crowd and as a result winds up with her back plastered up against her partner's front. He starts kissing her neck, hands coming to rest on her hips. She still can't see Smith, and she's really regretting the fact that she's not wearing stilettos because maybe a few holes in their feet would get these kids to fucking move. Or at least stop being so tall.
Lionel says, "False alarm, looks like she's just mad the cousin didn't make it to grandma's funeral last week." At the same time, Shaw's dance partner's kisses turn to sucking at the skin on the side of her throat, because apparently this night is just going to be one shitty college flashback after another. She's about to elbow him away when he introduces teeth into the equation. The endorphins tingle pleasantly through her blood about a half second before she steps down hard on his foot, stiletto or no. He jerks away, swearing.
"There's only one person who's allowed to hurt me," she tells him lowly. "Usually I shoot anyone else who tries, you should consider yourself lucky."
It's not until she gets back to the bar and hears root's voice in her ear that she realizes her coms were still on. "Technically you did shoot me."
"Technicalities usually don't' bleed that much. Or whine about it."
She flips off her com once she comes up beside Lionel because fuck Root, honestly. Shaw's cheeks are hot and her mouth is dry. She doesn't like it.
"So," Lionel says, trying to be casual and failing. "That one of her rules?"
Shaw stares at him, hoping her eyes look as dead as he's going to be if he ever implies that she'd ever follow a rule that Root laid down again. "No. It's one of mine."
He holds up his hands. "Ok, OK! Sorry I asked."
"Good," she says.
Later, Shaw sees Root in the semi-deserted hall by the bathroom where Smith's boss has just disappeared. She's pinning a smaller woman in too much eyeliner up against the wall, clearly using her as a reason to be loitering creepily outside the toilets. Shaw watches the way Root's nails leave scratches down the other woman's wrists, the way they're both licking blood off their lips when they pull apart. She's moving before she can fully think it through, stepping deliberately up close behind Root.
"You look like you're having fun," she says icily, right in Root's good ear. Root twitches, takes a step sideways and turns so Shaw's left facing her make out partner, who takes one look at Shaw and walks the fuck away.
"Hi, Sam," Root says. Shaw does not want to have whatever conversation is about to happen, doesn't want to examine her actions too closely in her own mind, let alone under Root's microscope of a brain, so she steps close into root's space, yanking her in with a hand tucked through her belt, turning them until it's Shaw with her back up against the wall. Shaw glares, daring her to say anything even as she slides her hand up under the back of Root's shirt to rest on soft skin and tips her head back against the wall to expose her throat.
Root leans down and kisses her, deep and confident and easy like it's a thing she does every day. Shaw watches over her shoulder for Smith's boss, parting her legs instinctively when Root wedges her own thigh between them. Root's mouth moves lower, and Shaw brings up her other hand to pet at her hair while she bites a mark onto the other side of Shaw's neck from the one doubtlessly left by the stranger on the dancefloor.
She straightens up when she's done, hands coming up to cradle Shaw's neck, thumbs bracketing the two marks. The skin of her hands is cold in contrast to the dull heat of the bite marks.
"Symmetry," Root says, clearly pleased with herself.
"I'm surprised you didn't just cover it up," Shaw says.
Root blinks long lashes, confused. "Why would I do that? I have no idea if you wanted it or not, and I was too eager to take the time to ask. Did you think it would bother me to see someone else's marks on you? I know you're fucking other people, Sam."
"I stopped him," Shaw starts to say, but Finch's voice cuts in on their coms.
"Miss Smith's boss has just climbed out the washroom window. I'd suggest one of you follow her."
"Got it," Root chirps. Her shoes look impractical as fuck for running. They also give her at least another five inches. It's fucking obnoxious.
Shaw grabs her arm before she turns away. "I stopped him when it started to hurt," she blurts out. It feels important that Root know this, even if Shaw can't pinpoint why.
*
Root flashes a quick, bright smile at the man behind the hotel desk, one hand coming up to straighten her glasses self-consciously.
"I really appreciate this, Ryan," she says earnestly. "I've been promising my wife we'd stay at this hotel the next time we were in New York for months, but with all the planning for the conference I completely forgot to make reservations."
Shaw tries not to grind her teeth, and shifts under the weight of the two suitcases filled with computer equipment and not nearly enough guns. 'Ryan' slides a keycard across the desk, and Root catches it under her fingertips, sliding it the rest of the way across the polished surface until it drops into her palm. "You enjoy your stay," he says, his tone alarmingly close to the one Shaw uses with Bear. "If there's anything else you need, you can use the phone in the room to call down."
"Thank you so much, again," Root coos, and she reaches out a hand toward Shaw. For a horrifying few seconds Shaw thinks she's going to try and hold hands, but she just grabs Shaw's wrist hard and strides across the lobby toward the elevator bank fast enough that Shaw has to half-jog to keep up.
Standing alone in the elevator Shaw reclaims her wrist. Root is bouncing back and forth from foot to foot, and Shaw makes a note to figure out what exactly is in a "Canadiano" and how to prevent Root from ordering one ever again.
"I want to stab him in the throat, I want to stab him in the throat," Root sing-songs under her breath, staring up at the ceiling. Shaw studies her for a minute.
"No, you don't."
Root's eyes snap to her. "Ooo, are we talking about this finally?"
"Talking about what?"
"The way you can tell when I really want to hurt someone and why, with a focus on why it bothers you so much when I do. Obviously."
"There's nothing to discuss," Shaw says. The elevator doors slide open at that point, thankfully, and Root's distracted with setting up her computers for the next half hour. Shaw drinks tiny bottles of vodka out of a bubbled water glass and watches whatever shitty episode of CSI is on TV until Root snatches the remote and switches it off.
"We've already had to deal with people today, do you really want to have to put up with them fictionally too?"
"You're absolutely right, sitting here staring into space while you try to figure out which way the usb chord plugs in is way more stimulating."
"I guess I have given you high expectations for hotel visits, haven't I? I'm hoping there's no dramatic shootout with Samaritan this time, but I'll tie you to a chair later if you're very good."
"Fuck you," Shaw says absently, flopping backwards on the bed.
Root's suddenly right there leaning over her, one knee on the mattress, hands balancing her on either side of Shaw's head. "No, really. Honestly the way you've been acting lately I think we could recreate the whole scene and you wouldn't put up a fight."
"If you ever tase me again I'm shooting you in the other shoulder," Shaw says immediately, and then realizes her mistake.
"So, tasing is out, but bondage and irons are in. I've been trying to figure out the boundaries. It's important. That I don't get it wrong."
Root has skipped ahead in the conversation, and a lot of the shit she's apparently already taken as read is shit that makes Shaw's shoulders hunch and her limbs get tingly and hot whenever she thinks about it. "I don't like it when you get pleasure from hurting other people," Shaw says, because she'd rather have control over when she gets to make the admonition if they're going to have this conversation.
"It's that 'other' that makes that sentiment stand out," Root says. "I knew you liked it kinky, but..."
"It's not always about that," Shaw says hurriedly. She really wishes Root would back off, give her a bit of physical space if she's not going to give any psychologically. "Just because you enjoy something doesn't mean it has to be sexual."
"Hmm," Root says. "That makes more sense. And it's kind of a relief."
Shaw ploughs forward, determinedly resigned to her fate. "You feel guilty when you torture people now. Or at least you don't like what Finch and The Machine think of you when you do it. You can't just fuck people up for fun, and now there're actual consequences if you do. But that shit at the club isn't going to work for you either, is it? A little hair pulling, a couple scratches or bights? It's like a cheap chocolate bar. Kind of OK, but ultimately it just leaves you wanting the real thing even more. So. A middle ground." She raises a hand, waves her fingers. "I know you won't do real damage, because you care about me or whatever. Already puts you above random assholes in bar fights or back alley muscle for hire. But I also know you won't wimp out. You really are a sadist, even if the appeal is different for you, and you have experience. Plus, you're creative --get that smile off your stupid face-- so at least I know things will never get boring."
Root stays very still for a few seconds, like a computer lagging as it processes data. "You were jealous," she says. "That's adorable."
Shaw pushes her off the bed. She lands on her back and stays there, kicking her socked feet up onto the corner of the bed and wiggling her toes. Shaw drags a pillow over her own face, groaning. Root's a unique brand of trustworthy and fucked up that Shaw's never experienced before, but it's really debatable if the annoyance factor makes it worth it.
"I have," Root says. "so many ideas. What are your feelings on predicament bondage?"
Shaw digs her fingers into the pillow and is glad Root can't see her face, because she's pretty sure she's flushed. She listens to the rustle of Root getting up, a few clicks of the mouse, a burst of rapid typing. Root comes back over to the bed and gently pries the pillow away from Shaw's face and out of her hands. She stares down at Shaw and the emotion written across her face makes something uncomfortable churn in Shaw's stomach. Root slides one hand under Shaw's head, cupping the back of her skull against the mattress. Her other hand comes to rest over the soft hollow of her throat, thumb and ring finger stretching along her collar bones. Shaw can feel her pulse beating rapidly pressed up against the base of her fingers. It's an incredibly vulnerable position, but Shaw forces herself to relax into the hold, to breathe even and deep and trust Root to keep her safe.
It hits her then, all in a rush, that doing this thing with Root will be so much more than she expected, that Root makes her feel open and exposed and wanting in a way that almost no one else has. She closes her eyes and forces down the fight-or-flight response, makes herself examine the reaction so she can categorise it as unnecessary. When she opens her eyes again, Root is still staring down at her with something far too close to awe.
"We're going to be so good together," Root says softly, carefully sliding her hand out from under Shaw's head. "I mean, we're good together all the time, clearly, but this is like levelling up." She lifts her other hand away, takes a couple quick steps back, rocking up on her toes and then down again. "But first we've got work to do."
Later, as they're leaving to plant bugs in the number's room, Shaw maybe takes a quick peak in the closet to see if the room has an iron. It does not. Looks like Root's gonna have to start proving that creativity right out of the gate. Shaw's looking forward to it.