Chapter Text
I. UNTHREADED
In all the simulations, Root never put a gun to her own head, so maybe this isn't another reboot. Or maybe it is, and Samaritan's finally figured a stalemate strategy. Still, the reality of Shaw's emotions are undeniable and expressed in the laden phrase, "Damn it, Root."
Root's safety is off, the click a crisp chirp to silence the crickets. Her action is with finesse, her words an incisive lance. You can't live with me was the thimble, I can't live without you was the needle, and Root has Shaw threaded.
It's not supposed to be like this. Shaw shakes her head and keeps her sidearm's muzzle pressed against her skull, even as her hand begins to shake. What if it's real? What if it's not real, if it's still a simulation? She's all knotted and tangled, full of seven thousand undesired strings; every thought makes a mangled twist, a sharp turn, and a hazardous loop back around. A bullet to Reese in the gut, a bullet to Fusco's beckoning buttocks, a bullet between Finch's eyes—sometimes a snapped neck, a hemorrhaging artery, or an axed skull—
But then Root, always Root.
Shaw observes her, looks with a penetrative stare, but she doesn't see a woman at loss of words. Not like before. This isn't a Root who gives mercy to opposition. The Root she sees is Root, the Root who knows, the Root whose hand on her gun's grip is resolute, whose dauntless finger is poised to shoot. This is Root, the insufferable whack-a-mole whom Shaw can never seem to place, because Root pops up everywhere all at once, then not at all, and sometimes here or there. Either Samaritan can predict Root and simulations aren't based off memory, or this isn't a simulation. It mustn't be a simulation, then, because if Shaw can't predict Root, then neither can Samaritan. Her palm is coated in sweat, her gun feels twenty pounds heavier, and a reticent finger leaves the trigger by a microscopic tilt. That's as far as she will go.
"Put the gun down, Root."
"As soon as you hand me yours," Root replies. She moves forward, each stride deliberate but soft.
Shaw's mouth twitches. The kinks are coming undone in her, and she doesn't know what's going to be left, doesn't know what she'll do within a breath of Root. Root draws closer, and, suddenly, Shaw needs to shoot herself. Her hand constricts her sidearm, knuckles white from strain. It's the only way to be sure, so she aims at herself again.
"Remember. You die, and I die, too," Root asserts, although the hitch in her voice and unpleasant swallow in her throat don't go unnoticed. She's now inches from Shaw, and her free hand, splayed, beckons for compliance. There's a stillness in the air, the hum of nightlife dead, except for Root's heart, which hammers against her ribcage. The sound's a desperate pounding, and in Root's lungs is a withheld breath, until, finally, Shaw relinquishes her weapon. Root flicks the safety on and does the same with her own sidearm, before setting both guns on the ground and kicking them a good distance. "I trust you..."
"You're wrong to."
"...But as a precaution," Root says, to humor Shaw, "I need to make sure you don't have more toys tucked anywhere."
Shaw winces. She's an imminent threat, a bomb with a lost timer. Her pulse ticks, and she's counting down the seconds, counting the number of ways she could wreck Root with her bare hands. But then Root's there, and when her hands begin to roam Shaw's body, she can't help but allow Root's touch. It's so real, and it starts with her calves, delicate fingers skimming up behind her knees. This isn't as much a pat down, Shaw's thoughts buzz, as it is copping a feel. And is it a feel all right, as she shivers when Root's hands meander along her inner thighs, then move up to grope her ass, graze her hips, thrum her stomach, rake her ribs, caress her breasts, smooth across her shoulders, amble down her biceps, capture her hands... and soon Shaw hunts around Root's body, too, deprived mind starved of sensation, starved of Root.
After an interim of inelegant hands slopping over each other's figures, Root's face is cradled into Shaw's nape, lips picking at her reality check, picking out knots. "Sameen," Root murmurs, a pause between nips, "There wasn't a day I didn't think of you." Her voice is hoarse, but then it cracks. The biting stops, and Root's nose nuzzles under Sameen's ear.
Sameen lets the words sink into herself, then sinks herself into Root's chest. Her heart rate flutters when Root's fingers curl into her scalp, coaxing apart snarled kinks, and she shudders. "I got your message," Sameen mumbles, monotonous tone lilted. Her arms, limp until now, thread around Root's waist and hold her body tight, a taut suture.
In the park's lamplight, their shadow is knit, a still figure stitched from gnarled strands. They stay like that for moments more, hushed and undisturbed, before the shadow unravels into two bodies, tethered by hand.
The taller shadow, with a slight frolic, leads the smaller one away.