Chapter Text
Their newest number, a hyper-vocal theater daredevil named Julian, just had his life spared. His thanks was to tell Shaw she's emotionless and doesn't notice "things."
Shaw halfway agrees. She’s emotionless, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t notice things. She notices things, all right—deep things. Like her loose bra strap. It's buried beneath her tank-top, which is buried beneath her sweatshirt, which is buried beneath her Burberry coat; really, it’s sweater meta, which she likes to call sweata. The actual point is this bra strap of hers: it slips from her shoulder to her bicep, and because of her sweata, she can’t readjust it, unless she deigns to undress in sub-zero weather. She absolutely refuses to do that, and that brings up another point. Shaw’s emotionless, sure, but she is sensitive. To the cold. And to too much salt. And overcooked steaks? Forget them. Mainly, forget this damned bra strap. It's only out of place because she bothered to walk a high wire to save Julian's flaming ass. Does anyone notice Shaw’s discomfort? No. Only Shaw knows. Only Shaw cares, and she cares because she’s sensitive, and she notices deep things. She does admit she sometimes doesn't notice particular things, but such instances only pertain to one Cause—
“Hey, Sweetie.”
“Root,” is Shaw’s flat-lined reply.
“You look…”
And here she goes again, Shaw thinks and visibly rolls her eyes. A diabetic endearment and an imminent, diabetic flirtation.
“… stuffed.”
“What?”
“You look stuffed,” Root reiterates. She rests against the wooden fence Shaw has halted beside, and her back slopes the slightest bit as she leans into an angry face. An angry, adorable face with a scrunched nose, furrowed brows, and expression that could obliterate a black hole.
Shaw lifts a hand to peal her beanie farther up her forehead, to better glare at Root. "Are you saying I look bloated?"
"Think about when you over-eat."
"And?"
"You get stu—"
"You already said that." Every time, she knows Root gets the hint to hurry up or get punched, but every time, Root ignores the ultimatum. It just isn't worth a damn to Root, because apparently poking at Shaw is worth the risk, and Shaw absolutely reviles it. To prove her disgust, she begins a mental countdown from sixty. When the second hits zero, she'll punch Root. The image makes her misery more bearable.
"It's rare, but when you eat too much, there's a look on your face."
"Kind of like this?"
Root cocks her head with a deprecating smile, because Shaw just made a troll face of the most heinous sorts. If Shaw wants to be cute, that's fine, but Root wants the game on her terms. In a second's moment, Root has both her arms flanking Shaw, who's backed into the fence. There's a flicker of surprise, discomfort, and quiet rage in Shaw's eyes, and then there's nothing. "More like that. So before you hurt me, I have to ask—remember our conversation the other night?"
"Which other night?" Shaw grinds out.
"You called me emotional, which you coined as 'normal,' then told me you were cold as ice."
"Yeah. And you bit me on the ass."
"And then you yanked my hair, but the point..." Root says, removing a glove, "remains the same."
It's only been forty seconds out of the sixty, and Shaw's ready to pummel Root and stain the snow red. It's one thing to be cornered; it's another to be cornered and have a hand shoved past her sweata. Root's hand singes, too, each finger branding a print into skin. The burning mirrors the heat that swells inside of Shaw, from the pit of her stomach through her esophagus, but her fists remain clinched. Just fifteen seconds left.
"A bit of a tight fit," Root apologizes, unapologetic nails searing trails across Shaw's shoulder, "But you'll thank me later."
Five, four, three, two, one... Shaw counts, and Root has straightened her bra strap. It's one of those deep things Shaw doesn't notice, and she blinks, because for some reason, she allows Root's hand to leave her sweata unscathed, and then it's under her jaw, and Root's thumb brushes her cheek. Shaw feels her blood freeze, because she's sensitive to the cold, and the cool crept in from the tiniest crack Root's dumb gesture made. In the worst way, it's all Root's fault that Shaw shivers, just because she let the stupid air in. "Your sixty seconds has expired," she growls, rips Root's palm from her clothes, and holds it by the wrist.
"Thanks for the time, Sameen," Root hums with mischievous eyes, as she skims her lips across Shaw's knuckles. When Shaw snatches her hand away, Root offers a toothy grin, and it doesn't fade when she keeps speaking. "I have a little something for you." From inside her coat, Root transfers hand warmers to Shaw's pockets.
It's not the first time Root's given her things, and Shaw never questions but shakes her head. She can feel the warmers' heat seep into her palms, to the bone it feels, and she wonders aloud, "Why?"
Root smiles. "They're not as good as me, but they'll keep your hands roasted until I get back to you." And then she's gone, as quickly as she had come.
Shaw tucks her chin into the top of her coat. She kneads the warmers and begins to walk. Sometimes she can't think of deep things when the one Cause is around, but she takes into account the departing promise. She knows the only deep thing she'll be into tonight is Root.