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Root jumps out of a moving truck on Christmas Eave, spends a couple hours lying in the snow on the side of an empty stretch of highway watching the stars creep softly out of the heavy winter clouds.
"You have a concussion," The Machine says.
"But no road rash," Root replies dreamily. She lies there until she thinks she can stand up without falling over, hands and feet slowly going numb as the world sways gently. The Machine tells her about each constellation of stars as they appear, words calm and gentle, like She's happy to keep her company as long as she needs.
The next morning, she shows up at Shaw's door with the sunrise. The Machine texts Shaw before she gets there-- 'Christmas present for you' and Shaw makes a face into the camera on her phone.
"Don't be creepy."
"I could wear a bow," Root says, bemused, when she sees the message on Shaw's phone. "Or you could tie me all up with ribbon. It'd be very festive."
"Like you'd ever let me tie you up," Shaw says, cracking eggs into a pan. "And stop invading my privacy."
Root sets the phone down. "I'd absolutely let you tie me up."
"Uh huh."
'It's the head trauma,' The Machine texts, and Root says
"Fuck you both," and Shaw says
"What head trauma?"
Root eats cold eggs while Shaw pulls her eyelids back and presses warm hands across her uncracked ribs. Her hands remain after the check, shift restlessly over the bruises on Root's skin, blues and blacks and yellows kaleidoscoping between her fingers. Shaw's staring determinedly at the bullet scar where she shot her. Root wishes in the unspoken undercurrents of her ever-shifting identity that she'd gotten the chance to press that iron to Shaw's skin just once when they first met. The fact that Samaritan has left indelible evidence of its presence on Shaw's body when Root could be washed away within a matter of weeks makes her want to lash out at the world and herself until everything is ashes, a riverbed of flaking carbon for Shaw to crush beneath her feet.
Root knows that she can throw herself up against Shaw over and over, that Shaw can withstand her and wear her jagged edges smooth and throw her back with equal force, but she also knows that if Shaw were to ever crack, a hairline fracture, Root would slip inside like a virus, like bad code infecting the fatal flaw in a system. This fear keeps her awake at night. Shaw can never know.
"I want to know what you look like when you're not in pain," Shaw says, scrubbing a plate furiously, the line of her spine stiff beneath the white flag of her words. Root has folded herself into a small ball on the kitchen floor, tile cool through her sweater and jeans. She's not wearing socks, and she keeps scrunching her toes like she's trying to hide them.
"You don't," she says. Shaw watches a butter knife bob in the soapy water and wonders how many bruises a life is worth. How many years of penance before it's real?
"A man is kind and generous and good for his entire life," The Machine whispers in Root's ear, later. Shaw's head is pillowed on her thigh and she's watching the place where her fingers are pressing inside of Root's body like a dust moat dancing across a lazy afternoon. "On his death bed, he tells his family "I've tricked you all. I've pretended to be good my entire life, and none of you knew how horrible I really was inside."
"A logic problem," Root says.
"A philosophical one."
"I'm not pretending."
Shaw bites carefully at the skin over her hip bones. "Secrets in bed are rude."
Root slides her hand into Shaw's hair, strokes it back from her face with slow motions, drags her fingers across her scalp. "The physical pain doesn't count, if we want to get all Karmic balancing through Catholic guilt. Hardware doesn't feel."
Shaw snorts. "You're not that delusional."
"Innovative," Root corrects. "The definition of terminology is in constant flux. A word gains its meaning from the agreed-upon context of the users."
"I'm not having an ontological argument with you in the middle of sex," Shaw says.
Root twists her fingers into Shaw's hair and tugs, not gentle enough to be playful, not hard enough to be cruel. Shaw shivers a bit, riggles closer so she can press herself up against Root like a cat, all unashamed physicality and eager affection. Root's nails scrape down across the crown of her head and she swallows back a soft whine of appreciation.
"It pisses me off when you're hurt," Shaw says, words stuttering out awkwardly like an engine coughing in the cold. "It feels like being in free fall, that weird empty feeling in my stomach, knowing you're out there and She's the only one watching out for your physical safety."
"You are not interchangeable," The Machine says. "I did not choose you to act as martyr."
Root stretches her arms above her head, links her hands together around the bed rail. "I'm right here," she says. "Will it help if you can keep me for a little while?"
"Yes," says Shaw, and then, "Unless you're just doing this to prove a point."
"I'm not just doing this to prove a point," Root offers.
"Good enough." She rolls off the bed, crawls over to her dresser and comes back with a set of zip ties. "Don't pull. I don't wanna hurt you."
"Can I get that in writing?" Root smirks. Shaw climbs on top of her, lips pressed together. Root remembers Shaw, three months out from a year of torture and pinning Root to the bed, frantic and shattering as she'd tried to goad Root into hurting her, holding her down. Remembers the sick choking feeling as Shaw snarled and begged and threatened, desperate to replace the memories and associations of receiving pain with kindness and care. Shaw doesn't think about that night. the shame burns too hot against her chest. Root replays each moment on repeat to remind herself how weak she can be, how she will always cause harm even in the act of refusing to cause pain.
"There are ties in the closet," The Machine says. "Less likelihood of minor injury than zip ties."
Root roles her head in a negative. Her body has come to operate with a low level of background discomfort as default, the zip ties won't bother her.
"Silk is commonly used in bondage scenarios if proper restraints are unavailable or a particular atmosphere or aesthetic is desired," She continues.
"If you want her to know, you tell her," Root says.
Shaw leans up from where she's been kissing a careful path down Root's sternum. "What does She want me to know? Don't tell me we have a number."
"No. Nothing important. Definitely nothing worth going to get your cell phone for."
Shaw rests her chin on Root's chest, absently fiddling with the zip ties which she's still holding in one hand. "But I don't need my phone, do I?"
Root lets her head tip back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. She's lightheaded, floating, anchored only by Shaw's weight on top of her. "No," she says. "There are ties in the closet. Less likelihood of minor injury than zip ties."
Shaw hums. "Good idea."
Minutes, maybe hours later, Root has lost track of time and location, Shaw's hands stroke everywhere over her skin, her presence steady and constant and warm, the weak sunlight painting stripes across the ceiling. Root shifts against the sheets, wrapping her leg around one of Shaw's. Each movement feels like swimming up through clear, still water, everything muffled and refracting around her. Shaw drags two fingers over Root's clit, circling with steady pressure.
"Slower," Root's voice says, even as she arches an gasps, pressing for more contact. Shaw soothes her with a hand against her stomach, but her fingers slow their movements. She leans in to flick her tongue over the skin of Root's inner thigh, just below where she wants her, and Root exhales harsh and shaky.
"Relax," The Machine says. "Breathe. Write("Use your mouth")"
Root arches closer to Shaw in anticipation even before the words have left her lips.
When she comes down, Root tries to focus enough to look down at Shaw, catch her eye.
"You're doing so good," she tells her, and Shaw's shoulders curl in in automatic embarrassment even as she smiles something pleased and proud.
"You too," she tells Root, reassurance offer from a place of experience.
Mid-afternoon, Shaw wakes up long enough to stumble out into the kitchen for a protein shake, and Root lifts her face out of the pillow where she's had it smushed for the past hour, one eye peeking out so she can see what she's doing on the tablet she's propped up against the blankets.
"You liked having me tied up," she says. "Why?"
The Machine takes a minute to answer, and when She does it's in text scrolling across the screen.
'Possibility of injury to analogue interface decreases when physically restrained by a trusted asset.'
Root wrinkles her nose. "Don't be like that. Talk to me."
"Your actions are sometimes unpredictable, and often do not take your own wellbeing into appropriate account. My limitations regarding direct physical intervention create a higher probability of avoidable injury."
Root breathes out, lets herself fall back to the pillow. "It decreases possible outcomes," she says. "I didn't realize you worried. You know that I would do, or not do, whatever you said."
"False. Previous data shows multiple occurrences of actions taken in direct conflict with my directives. Actions which placed you at a higher risk."
Root can hear Shaw puttering around in the kitchen, can smell her soap and sweat on the sheets. "I would have done the same if your positions were reversed," she says. "If Shaw had cuffed me down in the subway or demanded I not go, if your life were in danger, I would find a way. It's... another variable. It's only you two. You've got to factor love into the calculations."
"There are no set action parameters for love," The Machine says.
Root huffs a laugh. Believe me, I know. Just keep adding things to the dataset until themes and patterns start to emerge. It's more complex than I ever imagined."
"Yes," She says.
"Redefining terminology," Shaw says as the sun sets. She's lying with her head in root's lap while Root works on her tablet. "You're not hardware. But you're not... like a person, either."
"You really know how to make a girl feel special."
"Pretty sure you don't really think of yourself as a girl. and definitely sure you don't need any help thinking you're special. How you can be so arrogant and so self-critical at the same time is one of the universe's great mysteries."
"I don't know what I am," Root says, sighing.
"You wouldn't ever walk away from Her permanently," Shaw says. "Not even for me. But... you didn't leave me, either. You never gave up."
"I'm part of Her," Root says. "But you're part of my life. Losing either of you would create a critical failure."
"Exactly," says Shaw. "It goes both ways. That's how reciprocal relationships work. If you're hurt, so are we. You die in some stupid stunt, we're left to deal with the... Critical failure, or whatever. Ugh, I'm so fundamentally offended that your nerd bullshit is the best way I can articulate this. It makes more sense when you don't get emotions involved."
"You are not interchangeable," The Machine repeats. Outside, snow begins to fall.
Root stands at the window and watches the first stars creep out from behind the clouds. Shaw stands quiet beside her, easy and patient like she's happy to stay there with root as long as she needs.