Chapter Text
It was nine fifty in the evening when Shaw glanced at her watch.
“Eight o’clock, huh?” she murmured.
The safe house was sparse. No couch in the living room, and the single bedroom had a queen-sized bed with just one blanket. Shaw opened the closet. It was nearly empty, save for a neatly folded quilt on the top shelf. She pulled it out, gauging its size and thickness. On the floor, it could work as a makeshift sleeping bag.
“Already thinking about sleeping arrangements?”
Root’s voice came from the doorway, catching Shaw off guard. She hadn’t heard her coming. Root leaned casually against the frame, her gaze curious and unflinching.
“I’m supposed to be dead,” Shaw said, keeping her tone curt. “And you’re a criminal. You might not need rest before going to some CIA black site because a package doesn’t do anything, apparently, but I do. Someone has to do the delivery, right?”
As she spoke, Shaw pulled open the closet drawers. They were all empty. A soft sound landed on the bed. When she turned, she saw a toothbrush lying on the covers—her toothbrush! A wave of annoyance surged through her.
“You took my toothbrush?” she demanded, glaring at Root.
Root smiled innocently. “Of course I did. Unless you want to share mine? I know I tend to act out of the ordinary, but sharing a toothbrush is beyond me.”
Shaw narrowed her eyes, her irritation growing. She snatched up the toothbrush, shoving it into her jeans pocket, and turned her focus to the nightstand. Empty.
“Looking for something?” Root asked, her tone playful.
“No.” Shaw’s reply was clipped.
“If you’re looking for bugs, there aren’t any.”
Shaw didn’t dignify that with a response, but Root answered the unspoken question anyway. “The Machine confirmed it.”
The Machine again. Shaw resisted the urge to groan. Why the hell was the Machine working with this woman? A killer-for-hire. A criminal. Someone Finch had thrown into a psych ward. Why not Finch or Reese or, hell, even her?
“I know you have questions,” Root said, settling onto the bed with a bounce, her posture far too comfortable for Shaw’s liking.
“I do,” Shaw replied coldly, “but I doubt you have the answers. Now get out of my sight.” She tossed the quilt at Root, who caught it effortlessly. “Put that in the living room.”
Root tilted her head. “That’s your arrangement? I’m sleeping on the floor in the living room?”
“Yes,” Shaw said firmly. “If someone breaks in during the night, you’ll be the first one they shoot.”
Root grinned, her expression sharpening into something almost predatory. “I can’t believe it. Shaw, you’re scared.”
“What did you say?” Shaw’s voice dropped dangerously.
Root held up her hands, the grin still intact. “Relax. It’s my pleasure to be your shield.” She backed out of the room, taking the quilt with her.
Shaw followed moments later, a pillow in hand. Root was spreading the quilt on the wooden floor by the wall. Shaw tossed the pillow onto it.
“This is nice,” Root said brightly. “Like camping. I’ve never been camping. Bet you have, though.”
“Yeah,” Shaw muttered. “This is nothing like camping. No bugs, no frogs wailing, and there’s a bathroom. This is a sleepover.”
Root’s expression turned thoughtful. “Never had a sleepover either,” she admitted, a faint hint of regret coloring her tone.
Shaw raised an eyebrow. “I guess you were too busy teaching yourself hacking.”
Root shook her head. “No. My mom wasn’t the outdoor type. And I didn’t have a dad.”
Shaw paused, her gaze softening for a fraction of a second. “If you’re trying to make me feel sorry for you, you’re making a terrible mistake. I’m a sociopath.”
“No, you’re not,” Root said, her voice steady, like she was stating a fact. She met Shaw’s gaze with unnerving certainty.
Shaw let out a dry laugh. “I’ve heard you played a shrink once. Don’t tell me you think you can fool yourself.”
Root smirked, unbothered by the jab. “You have feelings. You care about people. You just pretend you don’t.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“No,” Root said lightly. “You’re not a liar. You just don’t want to admit that you care. It’s easier to be sociopathic and untouchable. Trust me, sometimes I wish I was a sociopath too. Life would be so much simpler.”
Her casual tone threw Shaw off. The words weren’t dramatic or heavy—they were just matter-of-fact, like discussing the weather. It irritated Shaw more than it should have.
“What do you even know about me?” Shaw challenged.
“The Machine told me about the Russian girl,” Root said smoothly. “Genrika. You risked your life to save her because you cared.”
Shaw stiffened. The Machine again. Always the damn Machine. “Gen’s a kid, and she’s sweet. But you? You’re—” she hesitated, scowling, “you’re perverted. You tried to burn me with an iron. Who does that?”
“I know we didn’t get off on the right foot,” Root said, her tone almost apologetic. “And abducting you from your apartment… probably not the best way to start a friendship. But sane isn’t exactly my specialty.”
Shaw groaned internally, ready to shut the conversation down, when Root handed her the taser. “Here. Tase me.”
Shaw stared at her, skeptical. “What?”
“Come on. Do it, and we’ll call it even. I deserve it, don’t I? You can trust me after.”
Shaw pressed the button experimentally. The taser sparked with a crackle of blue light. She smirked, slipping it into the back pocket of her jeans. “I don’t need a taser to take you down.”
Root opened her mouth to retort, but Shaw moved before she could utter a word. In one fluid motion, Shaw grabbed Root’s arm, twisted it behind her back, and pushed her face down against the table. Root let out a muffled groan as Shaw pinned her with a knee to her back. A moment later, Shaw reached for a zip tie, securing Root’s wrists together with practiced efficiency.
When Shaw stepped back, Root straightened up, wrists bound, a wry smile on her face. “That was smooth,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about your skills, but experiencing them firsthand? It's an honor.”
Shaw felt an odd mix of annoyance and amusement.
“I told Finch a mental hospital couldn’t hold you. But he had a point—putting you in jail would’ve been even more trouble.” Shaw’s voice dropped as she imagined the bloody chaos Root must have caused during her escape. “How many people did you kill to get out?”
“None.” Root’s answer was firm. “I had a gun, but I didn’t kill anyone. Not even your former colleague, Hersh. He was sent to eliminate me, and it would’ve been self-defense if I had. But the Machine told me not to. So, I didn’t.”
Shaw raised an eyebrow. Hersh had been at her mercy? The thought was both surprising and slightly amusing.
“So, what now? You just do whatever the Machine tells you? No more killing for money?” Shaw asked, her tone dry.
Root’s grin widened. “What can I say? I once was lost. Now I’m found.”
Shaw grimaced. Quoting Amazing Grace? That was a step too far.
“You seriously see the Machine as some kind of deity?”
“Don’t you see it?” Root tilted her head, her gaze softening with something almost reverential. “She knows everything. Like when you were fifteen, your mom married your stepfather, Ben. He has two daughters—”
Shaw raised a hand to cut her off. “Okay, point made. No need to elaborate. But with a good search online, anyone could find that out.”
“You’ve got a point.” Root nodded, a hint of genuine praise in her voice. “But the Machine isn’t just a search engine. She analyzes, calculates. She designed my escape plan. Without her, I wouldn’t have known how to get the anesthesia or how to rig the air conditioning system to knock out a whole squad of guards without anyone getting hurt.”
Shaw paused, processing the words. “She, huh? You see her as a person? A woman?”
Root’s smile deepened, tinged with something that might have been worship or affection, but she didn’t elaborate.
“My mom had a few admirers too, by the way.” Root abruptly shifted the subject, her voice dropping to a more reflective tone. “But she never got married. Not even to my dad. A woman born in the fifties, from small-town Texas, refusing to marry? Impressive, don’t you think?”
Shaw blinked, caught off guard by Root’s sudden pivot to her mother’s life choices. She stared at Root, half-expecting her to pull a rabbit out of her jacket at this point.
Root noticed Shaw’s look but showed no hint of embarrassment. If anything, she seemed amused.
“I figured we could do some small talk,” Root said lightly, “you know, to bond. You can’t seriously expect me to sleep at ten. I’m not a schoolgirl. And, for the record, I never go to bed without brushing my teeth. I’m going to need my hands back, unless you’re planning to do it for me.”
Shaw rolled her eyes but almost laughed midway through.
“Seriously? You can’t untie yourself?” she challenged, a smirk tugging at her lips. “It’s just nylon. There’s a knife in the kitchen.”
“This is supposed to be a punishment,” Root said with mock-innocence. “What’s the point if I just cut myself free without pleading?”
Shaw let out a dry laugh. “Good point. Now plead.”
Root stepped forward, her jacket brushing close to Shaw’s. For some reason, Shaw didn’t step back. Instead, she squared her shoulders, standing firm, almost confrontative. Root’s eyes softened, drifting downward before meeting Shaw’s gaze directly. There was a quiet intensity in them—a tension that challenged Shaw. And Shaw had always liked a challenge.
“I never trusted anyone since I was twelve,” Root said softly. “Not the cops. Not even my mom. She was always on my side, but I couldn’t count on her to help. And you?” Her voice dropped just a fraction. “You’re one hell of a fighter. How else could I have made you listen to me? And the fact I gave you my taser speaks volumes about my sincerity, doesn’t it?”
For a moment, Shaw didn’t respond, her eyes locked on Root’s. There was something in those words—and in her tone—that caught her off guard, though she couldn’t put a finger on it. She stayed silent, carried away without realizing it.
Then, as if snapping back into focus, Shaw broke the moment and stepped back. Wordlessly, she pulled a knife from the stand and sliced through the zip tie in one quick motion. Root rubbed her wrists, the pink marks visible where the restraint had pressed into her skin.
“Thanks,” Root murmured, flexing her fingers. She offered Shaw a faint smile, one of genuine appreciation.
Shaw glanced at her—just a glance. Short, fleeting, and sharp. If she looked any longer, she knew she might get swept into that quiet intensity again. And that wasn’t happening.
“So, you’re not exactly a combatant, huh?” Shaw said, her face straight but her tone carrying a teasing edge.
“I’m a hacker. Mostly I do behind-the-scenes work. And I usually have a partner, or two. They’re the muscle.”
“Mostly.” Shaw raised an eyebrow.
“When the client’s cheap, or the target’s easy, I handle it myself.”
“With a gun, I suppose?”
“Yeah. I’m not great at fistfights, but…” Root gave a small, self-assured smile. “I’m not half-bad with a gun. Solid partner material—no need to worry about me getting shot or caught.”
Shaw smirked faintly. “Not worried at all. Don’t flatter yourself.”
Later, Shaw sat cross-legged on the bed, her mind running through the next day’s mission. Root knocked on the open door, leaning casually against the frame.
“What now?” Shaw asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Just wanted to let you know the Machine hasn’t told me where we’re headed tomorrow.” Root’s voice was calm. “But she’ll fill me in when the time comes. So, no need to stress over the details tonight.”
“Fine,” Shaw said shortly, pulling the blanket up to slip under. But Root didn’t move from the doorway. Shaw paused, her patience thinning, and shot her a sharp look. “Close the door on your way out. Thanks.”
Root smiled innocently. “You know, I’ve decided I wouldn’t like camping. The floor is really hard.”
Shaw rolled her eyes.
“The bed seems wide enough for two,” Root pushed. “And I sleep like the dead.”
“One more word and you will be dead,” Shaw said through gritted teeth.
Root put her hands up in mock surrender but didn’t look intimidated in the slightest. Shaw could see it in her eyes—this was calculated, a game. She wasn’t sure what Root hoped to gain, but she knew where to draw the line: Root was not sharing the bed.
Root turned as if to leave, but Shaw spoke up, her voice sharp. “You know, in Afghanistan, I’ve slept outdoors.” She stood, walking to the door until she was level with Root. “The ground was so rocky, we couldn’t even set the camping beds stable. The sheets popped up like a tent.”
Root’s confident expression faltered, a flicker of confusion crossing her face.
“Go.” Shaw gestured toward the bed. “I don’t mind the floor.”
“Oh—no, that’s not what I meant.” For the first time, Root sounded almost flustered. “I don’t mind the floor either.” She exited quickly, moving to her makeshift spot on the hardwood.
Shaw stood there for a moment, caught off guard by Root’s reaction. She watched as Root settled into the folded quilt with surprising ease.
“You sure?” Shaw asked after a beat.
“Yeah,” Root said lightly, already lying on her side.
Shaw shrugged and turned off the light. In the dim glow of the moonlight through the window, she saw Root shift slightly on the floor. Shaw hesitated, glancing back at the open door. CIA safe house or not, she couldn’t fully trust the place to be safe.
Without a word, she left the bedroom door ajar before returning to bed.
Shaw woke up at six-thirty in the morning, as usual. She was surprised to notice the bedroom door was closed. She was sure she’d left it ajar.
She stepped into the living room and froze for a moment when she saw a cup of coffee and a paper-wrapped sandwich on the table.
The bathroom door opened, and Root emerged, her face slightly wet. “There’s no towel,” she said with a dry smile. “Had to use a tissue to dry my face.” She nodded at the food. “Oh, those are for you. I already had breakfast.”
Shaw raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “You went out?”
Root shrugged nonchalantly. “Woke up at five. You know how it is—when you’re up, you get hungry.”
“This is a CIA safe house, not a hotel,” Shaw said, her tone a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. “You’re reckless, aren’t you?”
“Relax,” Root grinned, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “With the Machine watching out for me, there’s no need to worry. Besides, I dragged you into this. Can’t let you work on an empty stomach.”
Shaw didn’t respond. She figured that answering Root would be giving her a victory. Instead, she quietly sat down, took a sip of the coffee, and began eating.
“Did you close my door?” Shaw asked, remembering that detail.
“Yeah. Didn’t want to wake you.” Root gave her a playful smile. “I was surprised you left the door open. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that was an invite.”
Shaw shot her a deadpan look. “Didn’t really want you to be my shield, did I? After all, the CIA wants their package alive.”
Root’s smile widened into a satisfied grin, clearly pleased with herself.
“The Machine still hasn’t told you where we’re going?” Shaw asked, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice.
“Not yet. You need to learn to trust her.” Root slid into the seat across from Shaw, elbows propped on the table. Her smile was warm, almost disarmingly so—a picture of politeness and charm. But Shaw wasn’t fooled.
“I trust the Machine. I’ve trusted it for years—long before I even knew it was real.” Shaw’s voice was flat, emotionless. “But this is different. It feels like walking blindfolded, just waiting for the Machine to tell you where to step next.”
“Exactly. Isn’t it fun?” Root said, a light, almost childlike delight in her voice.
Shaw’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Just know this: if we end up in some CIA black hole and the Machine can’t pull us out, I’m not starting a war with the CIA to save you.”
“Okay. Got it.” Root’s voice was teasing, but a flicker of something darker passed through her eyes. “Didn’t think you’d do that anyway. But hearing it out loud—ouch.”
Shaw raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Good to know.”
“But I don’t mind going up against the CIA to save you.” Root shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”
Shaw froze, frowning slightly. “Why?”
“I figured it’s kind of my job.”
“Your job?”
“Yeah. She wants me to help you guys. Harold, you, and even Reese.” Root said casually. “You know, sacrifice a bad person to save the good—her big picture.”
Shaw’s confusion deepened. Root didn’t seem like she was joking—no one would joke like that, not even Root. “Sounds to me like the Machine is using you as a tool. And you’re letting her do that to you?”
“More like she’s reforming me. Giving me a second chance.” Root’s tone softened, though she kept it light. “She’s protecting me too. I need to be alive to do those things, after all.”
“I don’t understand. You’re saying you’re willing to die to save us?”
Root gave a wry smile, leaning against the counter. “I wouldn’t say ‘willing’ to die. But for the first time in my life, I feel like I have a purpose. Like life means something bigger than... me.”
She stood up, tossing the empty coffee cup and the torn paper into the trash. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she saw it was only seven.
“Well, lucky for you.” Shaw leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “I don’t need you to save me. Neither does Reese. And as long as we’re both alive, Harold’s fine.”
Root flashed her a smile. “I like your confidence.” She tugged some hair behind her ear, revealing a small earpiece.
“That earpiece…” Shaw gestured to her own ear. “I don’t think they’ll let a ‘package’ wear it. You’ll lose the Machine’s connection. Have you thought of that?”
“I suppose that’s why I need a partner.” Root said lightly, as if talking about needing a partner for a poker game.
Shaw nodded, her expression unreadable.