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Shaw
You wake up promptly at 6 AM, and the first thing you notice is that your right leg feels odd. Upon investigation, you discover that the offputting factor is the lack of Root’s body wrapped around said leg, the position she usually settles into sometime during the night, after aggressively cuddling you against your will.
Root left early yesterday. Every few weeks she gets called out on some unspecified mission for the Machine and she’ll bounce around the country, changing identities as often as she changes clothes. And you know she changes clothes a lot, because she tends to text you pictures every time she does. These are usually followed by pictures of her taking those clothes off.
You take a moment to enjoy the freedom all of your limbs are presently experiencing before you roll out of bed, and prepare to begin your morning routine of picking up the clothes that Root has failed to take to the hamper that you have in the bathroom for exactly that purpose, a fact which you have imparted to her on numerous occasions. It takes you a few moments of confused staring at the spotless floor to remember that Root’s absence has freed you from this obligation as well.
A few sets of pushups are in order before you take a shower, and this endeavor (like the rest of your morning so far) is blissfully free of sleepy innuendo issuing from the direction of the bed.
***
Shower and breakfast are completed in short order, and with nothing else to do, you find yourself on the train, figuring you’ll check in with Reese and Finch. Numbers have been coming in slow lately, but given the dearth of other ways to spend your time, you’ll give it a shot. Plus you miss Bear.
The train jerks and a man who looks he hasn’t showered in weeks bumps into you. Gritting your teeth, you resist the urge to grab him and shove him away, and he moves away of his own volition. This ride through the city is always a test of your patience. People in general tend to annoy you, and these particular people seem to be bereft of any concept of personal space, or personal hygiene.
Your phone buzzes and distracts you from your increasingly dour thoughts.
SENT FROM Root AT 07:31
Hey sweetie. ;) Just wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you. ;) ;)
VIEW ATTACHED IMAGE?
You click ‘yes,’ and then quickly stow the phone back into your jacket, since this image clearly was not meant for public viewing. Root’s always been flirtatious, but she’s gotten more… explicit since she moved in with you.
Apparently you didn’t put your phone away fast enough though, since the woman sitting next to you is giving you harsh, judgmental looks. You glare at her until she looks away.
You fucking hate this train.
***
“Ah, Ms. Shaw, I believe Mr. Reese has already handled today’s number. I suppose you have the rest of the day off.”
“Great, just what I need,” you grumble, getting down on your knees and calling to Bear. “Hey, Bear! Come here!”
“I take it that Ms. Groves is working another relevant number?” Finch asks, turning away from his crazy computer utopia to look at you.
You glance up from petting Bear and cast an acidic glare in his direction. “Why would you say that?”
“Um,” Finch wavers in the face of the bullets your eyes are shooting at him. “No reason.” He turns back to his computers.
“AAAAAANnnnnd we’re back! Welcome to and or welcome back to 95 point 9 FM KLCM coming at you from-“
“What the hell is that?” you ask, moving towards Finch’s computer station, from which the noise seems to be originating.
“I… have no idea,” Finch says, his fingers clacking rapidly against the keyboard. “Someone is hacking my system… to broadcast a local radio show?”
“But before we get to that we have, get this, a special request from a caller in Japan, who listens online, and she asked us to play something for her sweetheart Sameen. So Sameen, wherever you are, this one’s for you!”
The room is then immersed in the sound of down-tuned guitars, machine-gun fire polyrhythmic drums and roared vocals. You snort, and roll your eyes. Root has tended to be somewhat critical of your taste in music, and you suppose this is her poking fun at you. Or maybe she sees it as a genuinely romantic gesture. Sometimes it’s hard for you to tell. Finch appears unsure about whether or not to make eye contact with you.
***
After a few hours of wandering aimlessly through the city and failing to find any gangsters or government assassins to beat the shit out of, you return to your apartment. You are forced to take the train back, and flip off a man who tries to hit on you as well as a woman who seems content to let her kids scream right next your ear.
Your apartment again proves to be just as uninteresting as the world outside it, and you spend the rest of the day cleaning your guns and watching baseball.
You consider going out to find something to eat, maybe a good steak, but ultimately decide against it. Several months ago Root took it upon herself to learn how to cook the perfect steak, and since then, all other steaks have merely served to remind you of their inferiority, and usually you go to a bar afterwards and drown your disappointment in alcohol.
So you just get some leftover Chinese from the fridge (awful, who eats this stuff???) and a beer, and call it a day.
***
You again wake up at 6 AM. Or perhaps it might more appropriate to say you simply continue to be awake, since to your recollection, your entire night was spent rolling over and contorting yourself in various ways attempting to get comfortable, rather than actually getting any sleep.
You roll out of bed and throw yourself into your morning workout, hoping to burn off some of your anger. It doesn’t really work; instead you’re just angry and sweaty and fucking exhausted.
After your shower you try to make yourself breakfast, but this goes just as shittily as the rest of the day has since apparently your stupid kitchen has no fucking food. Your phone buzzes.
“What?!” you growl into it.
Finch’s voice come through the speakers. “Ms. Shaw, I apologize if this is a bad time but we seem to have a… situation here, and we could use your assistance. I’ll text you the address.”
“I’m on my way.” you grab your gun. You had better get to use it on someone.
***
“Finch, I think the babysitter is our perpetrator.”
“What makes you say that, Ms. Shaw?”
“She just tried to shoot me.” you nudge the woman on the floor with the toe of your boot. “Shut up, it’s just your knee. You’re not gonna die.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. She’s a lousy shot.”
“And Mr. Caldwell’s son?”
“Got him here. Don’t think he was in any danger from her; it’s dad she’s after.” You look at the child held against your hip, who appears to be unsure whether he’s terrified of you or not. “Can you send Reese over here, Finch? Kids aren’t really my thing.”
“Little busy here right now, Shaw.”
“Mr. Reese! Were you able to locate the cult’s base of operations?”
“You could say that.” You hear crashes and groans over the phone line. “We’re having a chat.”
“You need backup?” You ask.
“No, I’ve got it covered. Keep an eye on the kid.”
“Hey, Glasses! I’ve been following this Caldwell guy all day and the most interesting thing he’s done is order a latte. You sure he’s our guy?”
“Ah, Detective Fusco, it seems Mr. Reese and Ms. Shaw have the situation in hand.”
“Great. Glad I could help.”
“Actually Fusco,” you say. “I could use a hand here. Rather have not the police find me with someone else’s kid and a babysitter with her kneecap busted.”
“Man, it just never ends with you people. All right, I’m on my way.”
“Finch, how do you deal with a crying kid?” He’s technically not crying yet, but the calamity appears imminent and you’d prefer to be prepared.
“You are an intelligent and resourceful woman, Ms. Shaw, I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
“Gee, thanks,” you reply. “That’s helpful.”
You take the kid into the living room and turn on the television. “Just stay here and watch TV, OK?”
You return to your perpetrator-slash-homicidal-cult-murderer-babysitter, and secure her hands behind her back with a ziptie retrieved from inside your coat. Root would raise an eyebrow and probably make some lewd comment if she knew you routinely carried zipties around with you, but dammit they’re useful in your line of work.
You prop her up against the wall, hesitate, then knock her out for good measure. Doesn’t hurt to be careful.
The kid’s still watching TV when you make it back to the living room, thank goodness. You can’t imagine how Reese and Finch would have reacted if you’d lost him. You sit down next to him.
“Uh,” you say. “Hey.”
He doesn’t say anything back, just looks at you with wide eyes. You figure he’s at least three years old, maybe a little older, so he should be able to talk, right? Maybe he just doesn’t like you. Children make you uncomfortable, and you seem to have the same effect on them.
Well, except Gen. But she’s kind of an odd kid. She took to Root immediately, and now any time you go to check up on her, she asks all sorts of questions about Root, calling her your ‘girlfriend,’ which as far as you’re concerned is one of the signs that Root is corrupting her. Other signs include the ‘field trip’ she asked you to take her on, which ended up being a date with Root (with Gen nowhere in sight, though you’re sure she was spying on you somehow), or the hushed phone conversations they have, which you suspect are about you.
Speaking of Root….
“-are on the scene now, and we are hearing reports of minor injuries - OK, we have just received confirmation that the Japanese authorities have disabled the device-“
The text along the bottom of the screen reads: MAJOR TERRORIST ATTACK IN JAPAN FOILED, but your attention is on the crowd of people behind the reporter. One in particular, a tall, dark haired woman, with a studious look on her face, and, inexplicably, wearing army fatigues. Root. As if she sensed you noticing her, the carefully arranged look on her face slips, and she looks directly at the camera and winks.
Your stomach shifts oddly as you look at her, and you quickly change the channel. Really, she bugs you nonstop when she’s home, does she have to do it when she’s gone, too?
***
Fusco shows up, and you leave him with the kid and the obligation of spinning the situation to the police in a way that makes some sense. Your mood has soured again, and against your better judgment you stop at a restaurant to get something to eat.
The steak, when it finally arrives, is overcooked and underseasoned, and makes you even more frustrated. You tell your server to bring you the drink with the highest alcohol content, since that’s about the only way you’re going to make it through this meal. She nods, and scurries away. The expression on your face has apparently dissuaded her from trying to make any small talk; one bright spot in this otherwise odious experience.
The server brings your drink out; you down it immediately and tell her to bring you another, and she again hurries off without speaking. You sigh, set your shoulders and begin on the steak. It’s terrible, as you expected, but it’s made infinitely worse by the couple at the table across from you. They’re young, maybe early twenties; apparently too young to realize all their doeful staring and ‘romantic’ touches are just obnoxious, and detrimental to people who are just trying to salvage some manner of enjoyment from an awful meal.
Your next drink arrives and quickly follows the first.
***
You lay in bed staring at the ceiling. This has been your situation for the last hour or so, with sleep seeming an elusive adversary, despite the fact that you are utterly exhausted. Exhaustion, though, is starting to give way to (or perhaps fueling) fury. Your day has been garbage, and all you want to do is close your eyes and get a few hours of rest, but no matter how shift around in the bed, sleep does not come. You attempt to wrap a few pillows around your leg, but they fail to produce the sensation of a lanky perky psycho resting there, and after a few moments you angrily throw the them onto the floor.
***
Morning assaults your eyes and ears through the bulwark of pillows you erected to keep it out. You push them aside and glare bleary-eyed at the clock on your endtable, which reads 9:34 AM. You suppose at some point last night your sleep-deprived delirium had transformed into some delicate facsimile of sleep, before it was shattered by the sounds of a drunk moron outside your apartment.
You drag yourself out of bed. You’ve spent the last several hours trying to crawl back to sleep, but apparently that’s not going to happen. Maybe Reese and Finch need some help taking down more cultists. And it’s probably about time for Root to send you some overly sentimental message in a roundabout way.
You check your phone. No new messages.
Huh.
***
11:00, and still no word from Root.
Not that you’re put out, or anything. But usually she’d have sent you something by now.
***
1:00. Unbidden images of Root appear in your head, Root hurt, or in danger, without you to protect her. You know Root can take of herself, and she has the Machine… though honestly you wouldn’t put it past the Machine to sacrifice its “Analog Interface” if it needed to. You realize you’re pacing around your apartment, and force yourself to stop, gripping the edge of the counter so hard your knuckles turn white. Root is yours, dammit, and if anyone other than you tries to hurt her, you’ll rip them apart.
It occurs to you that getting yourself worked up over theoretical malefactors is not a particularly constructive use of your time, and resolve to see what Reese and Finch are up to, even if they haven’t seen fit to contact you yet.
***
You take the train.
Your glower is apparently even more potent than usual, since you seem to have created a bubble around your person that the other patrons of the train are loath to enter, preferring to cram in closer to each other rather than risk coming near you.
***
“Do you have any way to track Root?”
Finch looks at you, and apparently thinks better of making any inquiries. “I’m afraid not. Ms. Groves has proven to be quite adept at evading detection.”
The room is covered in silence for a moment, then Finch says hesitantly, “She can take of herself, Ms. Shaw. And I’m sure the Machine would alert us if she were in danger.”
“Sure,” you grunt. “Like I trust that thing. Where’s Reese?”
“Mr. Reese is just doing some reconnaissance, I don’t believe he requires any assistance.”
You go anyway. Anything to take your mind off… things.
***
AUDIO TRANSCRIPT FROM CAMERA #34256:
REESE: You know I don’t really need backup on this, Shaw.
SHAW: …..
SHAW: I’m bored.
REESE: You missing Root?
SHAW: …..
REESE: You want to talk about it?
SHAW: …..
REESE: ……
REESE: Good talk.
END TRANSCRIPT
***
Root
You ditch the stewardess’s uniform. Not really your style, and anyway, you have a date tonight. Got to look nice. You slip into the dress that fortuitously crossed paths with you, and take a moment to admire yourself in the mirror. Red’s not really your color, you think, but it’ll have to do. It does a nice job of accentuating your features, you suppose, turning around to see the effect of the dress from behind.
Yes, you think. Sameen will definitely like it.
***
Under Her guidance, you happen across a phone whose owner abandoned it. You pick it up, and quickly tie it to your regular number. Things got a little dicey as you left Japan, and unfortunately your old phone was one of the bits that didn’t make it, so you haven’t been able to contact Shaw. You know that she worries about you whenever you’re gone, so you like to keep in touch with her as much as you can.
SENT FROM Root AT 8:21
Hey Sameen. ;) Date tonight?
You arrest your rapid progression through the city for a moment, and pick up a black handbag resting on a bench, then continue on your way.
SENT FROM Shaw AT 8:22
Where are you
You smile. For all that she’d deny it, she’s really quite sweet. You text back as you walk into the restaurant you’ve chosen for tonight.
SENT FROM Root AT 8:23
Downtown. Thought I’d take my girl to dinner. :)
Dates are hard. For one, it’s tough to get Shaw to even agree to them in the first place, so generally you have to employ some sort of subterfuge just to have a romantic night out. Plus, the bar has been set pretty high in the past.
You step into the restroom, and quickly take the dress off. You’ll put it back on before Shaw gets here, but your next task has different sartorial requirements. You pull the chef’s uniform belonging to Allison Hargrove out of the black handbag. The Machine doesn’t create new identities for you as often as She used to, but you still have a lot of spares lying around for when you need them. Like when you need to impersonate a chef to cook dinner for your girlfriend. You stow the bag where you can find it later, and check your phone again as you make your way to the kitchen.
SENT FROM Shaw AT 8:23
I haven’t heard from you since yesterday
For someone who claims to have no feelings, she’s not very good at hiding them. Like the time she took you to the Persian restaurant where her parents had their first date. She’d relayed this information to you casually, like it didn’t mean anything, but she didn’t make eye contact with you.
Of course, you’d known exactly what it meant as soon as you got there, but still, it was a nice moment.
Which brings you back to your previous dilemma re: dates. You shoo extraneous employees from your path as you collect ingredients.
Your first date had involved zipties and tazing and kidnapping, which honestly can be kind of hard to top. You mentioned this offhandedly to Shaw once, who had told you, “There’s no way that was our first date.” You’d said nothing in response, since she’d just tacitly admitted that she was actually dating you, and you wanted to revel in the moment for a while. She apparently realized the same thing, because she frowned and looked away, which is what she usually does when you trick her into admitting she likes you.
But anyway the point is, planning dates is hard. It’s always nice when you’re working a number together, since seeing you use a gun gets Shaw worked up, and seeing her with a gun gets you worked up, and in the end everyone goes to sleep happy. But perfect dates like that don’t always fall into your lap, and besides, sometimes a girl just wants to show her lady friend a nice time without anyone getting shot or tazed.
Although the tazing can be fun.
But that’s why you decided to learn the art of steak-cooking. Shaw doesn’t even object to you calling them dates when there’s the promise of one of your steaks. She was rather dubious the first time, but after one bite the expression on her face changed to… one you’ve seen in a rather different setting. You were a bit put out that she payed more attention to the steak than she did to you, you did spend a lot of time on it just for her after all, but once she finished the steak, she’d hiked your dress up and ate you out, and she spent a lot more time on you than she did on the steak.
You set the meat cooking, and text her back with your free hand.
SENT FROM Root AT 8:29
Aww, were you worried about me?
SENT FROM Shaw AT 8:39
No
SENT FROM Shaw AT 8:40
Are you hurt
SENT FROM Root AT 8:42
I’m fine. Just cooking up something for you. ;)
SENT FROM Root AT 8:42
Can you wear that black dress?
SENT FROM Shaw AT 8:47
Ok
You grin, and send her the address.
***
“You said you weren’t hurt.”
You roll your eyes, as she probes the cut on your neck. It’s not even a big cut, but you don’t push her away, since you know this is one of the ways she tells you that she cares about you. And because the view is pretty nice, as she bends towards where you’re sitting to put a bandage on your neck. The dress is very low on her chest and very high on her legs, and the overall effect is somewhat breathtaking.
“So you were worried about me.” You say, leaning forward to breathe in the scent of her hair.
“No,” She grunts. “I’m just tired of patching you up.” She straightens, evidently satisfied with her work, and takes her seat opposite you at the small table. “Be more careful next time.”
You’ve reserved a private room for you and Shaw to enjoy your meal, one of the perks of being the restaurant’s head chef. You know Shaw hates eating around other people, and you’re also thinking that once she finishes her dinner, you’ll get up on the table and let her have dessert.
No, wait, that was terrible. You better work on that line before you say it to her.
“So that’s it?” You say, twisting a strand of hair around a finger. “I haven’t seen you in three days, and I don’t even get a hug?”
She looks up from the steak (already nearly half gone), her elbows on the table, and glares at you. You raise an eyebrow. There's a moment of tense silence, before she groans and stands up. Nothing comes between Shaw and her food. Nothing except you, which is how you know she loves you. You stand too, and smirk at her as she walks over to you so you can wrap your arms around her. You don’t get to hold her very often, so you savor the moment; she always insists on holding you in bed, despite the fact that the difference in your respective heights makes the endeavor become rather silly very quickly.
You gently tilt her head up to yours so you can kiss her, and no matter how many times you do this, you never fail to be amazed by how this woman, practically carved out of stone, can be so soft.
She tastes like steak.
“Is that enough?” Shaw asks softly. She tries to sound nonchalant, but you think you hear her breath catch.
“No. But I can wait ’til later.” You lean closer and whisper into her ear. “And then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.”
Her breath definitely catches this time.
***
You note with no small amount of pride the wobble in Shaw’s legs as she wriggles back into her dress and out of the restaurant, and you slip your arm around her waist to steady her. And if it drops down a little lower, well, who can blame you?
You catch a cab, and you spend the majority of the ride latched into Shaw’s neck, giving her a set of bruises to match the ones she left on your thighs.
***
As Shaw heads into the bathroom, you begin peeling your dress off to change into your usual sleepwear, which consists of one of Shaw’s tank tops, and a pair of her shorts. She complains about you taking her clothes, but she gets this possessive sort of look on her face whenever she sees you in them, and you think it actually kind of turns her on.
You enter the bathroom as Shaw exits. She’s wearing sweat pants and a tshirt, and idly you wonder if she’s wearing anything underneath. Maybe you’ll check. As you step into of the bathroom, she glances towards you, and you watch her gaze run down and linger on your legs, and yes, this is another benefit the shorts provide.
When you deem your teeth sufficiently brushed for any kissing that may occur, you go back into the bedroom. Shaw’s sitting crosslegged on the bed.
You crawl across the bed and press a kiss against her lips, then lay back on your side of the bed. “I’m kind of cold,” you say, tilting your head back to look up at her. “You wanna come warm me up?”
“How can you possibly be this horny all the time?” she asks, exasperated.
You adopt an innocent tone, looking at your hands in front of you. “It’s not my fault. My girlfriend’s really hot.”
You glance at her out of the corner of your eye. She’s not looking at you. “I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Well, you did ask me to move in with you. Can’t blame a girl for drawing her own conclusions.”
Shaw groans, reaches up to turn the lamp off, and pulls the covers up over her. “Go to sleep, Root.”
You lay on your side under the covers, facing her, and you close your eyes. After a few minutes, you feel her pulling you towards her. Shaw wraps her arms around you, tucking your head against her chest.
“Sameen…” you start.
“Don’t.” She growls.
“Are you… cuddling with me?”
She groans. “Shut up, Root.”
She’s silent for a while, then you hear her say quietly, “I missed you.”
You wrap your arms around her waist, and press a kiss to her neck. “Missed you too.”
***
When you’re pretty sure she’s asleep, you carefully reach over to the endtable for your phone, raising it up and taking a picture of Shaw wrapped around you.
Maybe you’ll send it to her the next time you’re out of town.