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Sameen kisses like a gunshot. It’s not often and it’s always sudden and forceful, something that overtakes Root and leaves her breathless. She kisses not when she’s overcome with emotion—it’s hard to imagine her overcome with anything—but when she’s trying to express something that she doesn’t have words for. She kisses Root when she first sees her again, and it’s hard and sharp even though it seems like she should be beaten (soft, pliant, wanting). But they couldn’t break her and she kisses as recklessly and un-self-consciously as she did in the stock exchange, all power and purpose.
Root is different: from Shaw and from previous iterations of herself. She has never kissed someone so imprecisely before. She knows what to do with erogenous zones, can manipulate them for optimal results, but she doesn’t so much understand the overwhelming urge to touch: the sensation of looking at Shaw and of [loving] her and the feeling that it might explode out of her and leave messy Root-shaped explosive residue on the floor. In bed (lazy, post-orgasmic, sweat-soaked) she peppers kisses from Sameen’s neck across her shoulder to her collarbone, and Sameen jerks back with a familiar bemused expression.
Holding herself suddenly motionless, Root asks, “Is that okay?”
Shaw regards her for a moment. “Yeah.” She closes her eyes, turning so her back faces Root, preparing for sleep. Root presses one more kiss to the back of her neck, and at Shaw’s answering grunt she smiles an uncontrollable grin into the pillow.
Root kisses her on the cheek when they meet, even after only a few hours. Shaw leans into it ever-so-slightly, almost imperceptibly tilting her cheek toward Root’s lips. Sometimes Root nips at her jaw or her earlobe to get a stronger reaction (there’s a muscle that tenses gorgeously in her neck), but most of the time she just takes the memory of the gentle tilt of Sameen’s cheek and tucks it into her chest, warm and glimmering between her ribs.
She can’t think about what they did to Shaw for too long, or she becomes all coiled-spring rage. The Machine talks her down, in Her way: Can—you—hear—me?
“Yes,” Root says into the air, “absolutely.”
Regulate—your—breathing.
“Hard when you’re whispering sweet nothings in my ear,” Root says, but her breath slows and so does her pulse.
Pulse: 100 beats per minute. A pause. I—comfort—you.
“Yes,” Root says softly. “You do.”
The Machine doesn’t say anything more.
Root doesn’t know what they did to Shaw, actually. Not really. What she knows: They tried to find the Machine. They didn’t.
Root wants to say: Thank you, I’m proud of you, I’m sorry. She catches it in her throat and keeps it there. Instead she kisses Shaw softly at her temples and Shaw lets her.