Archive of Our Own

“Let me guess,” Shaw says with a meaningful tilt of an eyebrow as she takes in the unexpected guest dripping blood onto her nauseatingly domestic welcome mat. “Kitchen cupboard?”

From under the bloody towel pressed to her temple, Root’s eyes (her left already bruised) crinkle with a sheepish smile.

“He loves me, he really does.”

Shaw rolls her eyes and steps aside, swinging the door wide. “Come on.”

Root follows her with a thankful smile. She takes off her jacket and lingers by the door for a moment, taking in the apartment – the off-white walls kept bare despite the spots of age any other tenant would have quickly covered, the practical kitchenette pushed into the corner next to an empty dining room table with a single chair pushed under it with medical precision, and the corner of a made-up single bed peeking through the doorway of the bedroom.

Shaw follows her gaze. The only items of some luxury are a black leather couch (after Bear, the best friend a girl could want), the stainless steel fridge complete with ice-dispenser and mini-freezer (she likes her fridges taller than she is, if she has any say in it), and a bottle of Glenfiddich single-malt scotch planted proudly on the end table (because she’ll be damned if she has to stay sober for as long as this motionless nightmare lasts).  It’s not a lot, and it definitely isn’t home, but to be honest she can’t remember the last place she could call that, and she’s been in far shittier hide-outs awaiting orders. Deep desert Iran comes to mind. She swears, even five years later, she’s still finding sand in unusual places.

She grabs the bottle of scotch and throws it at Root, who catches it one-handed.

“Nice place,” she quips as she saunters forward.

“Don’t even.” She pulls open a kitchen cupboard and pushes aside a spare Beretta 9mm.

Root laughs lightly, and the couch creaks as she sits.  “Nice couch at least.”

Shaw smiles. “It better be. Cost me two month’s salary.” She looks back to see Root struggling one-handed with the cap of the scotch bottle. A drop of blood slides down her temple to her jaw, and she resists the urge to push her off the couch. “If you get blood on it, I’ll kill you,” she says instead, turning back to the cupboard.

Root laughs mirthlessly. “Get in line.”

She hides the smile as she turns with the medical kit in hand, grabs the dining table chair, and plants it in front of the couch.

“Show me,” she commands.

Root lifts the bloodstained towel from her face without preamble. The cuts across her temple and hairline begin bleeding immediately and abundantly, not unusual for head wounds, but Shaw frowns at the speed. Either Root has hemophilia or the cuts are made by –

“Glass?” she asks as she continues examining.

Root winces as she inches her hand lightly around the wound on her temple, pulling it open to inspect the depth. “Yes.”

She grunts and presses Root’s chin to turn her head. Root’s lips quirk with a smile and her eyes never leave her face, but Shaw ignores it.

“These three need stitches,” she says after a moment, releasing Root’s chin and gesturing to a deep cut high on her hairline that’s nearly to the bone, one across her temple and eyebrow that’s swelling her eye shut, and the last below her left ear. “The rest can do without. Or I can glue them. There might be glass in the deep ones, but I don’t have an ultrasound machine here, so I’ll feel for it and then just stitch them up anyway.” She turns to the medical kit and begins setting up a sterile field.

“I won’t lose my eye, will I, doctor?” Root jokes as she watches.

“If you keep asking stupid questions, you might,” she throws back, and Root’s right eye crinkles with a smile again – her left is simply too swollen. The asymmetry is an oddly amusing sight. “I don’t have anesthesia.” She grabs the bottle and opens it for her. “Drink.”

“Gladly,” Root says, and takes a large swig.

The bottle is considerably emptier when she finally pulls on the sterile gloves and begins sterilizing the wounds. Root cringes as she goes, but the scotch seems to be taking effect, because by the time the last cut (number twenty-three, if she counted right) is clean, Root’s jerk of pain is considerably muted. A small smile even tugs at her lips as Shaw aligns a surgical suture in her needle holder. Silently, she sets to work on the top cut.

“Ah!” Root jerks back in pain, and the needle slips out of the wound.

It seems she overestimated the alcohol’s effect, and she freezes, needle holder and forceps raised.

“Do you want me to leave you scarred and unattractive?” she asks with a pointedly raised eyebrow as Root realizes her mistake and freezes, grimace of pain turning to one of apology.

“Some girls like scars,” she points out with a hesitant smile.

Shaw purses her lips, unamused.

“Sorry,” Root mutters, and tenses in anticipation as Shaw sets to work again.

She pulls the first stitch, and Root grimaces in pain. Her movements are precise and exact, giving minimal traction and inflicting as little pain as possible, but stitches without anesthesia – definitely no picnic. She knows that from personal experience. But she also knows it’s considerably easier when you’re doing it on yourself and you know what’s coming. Root’s eyes are closed and her hands shake on the towel in her lap in her effort to stay still, and Shaw’s stomach turns uncomfortably.

She clears her throat. “So,” she says after a tensely threaded stitch. She vaguely remembers some bullshit lecture on putting patients at ease during surgical procedures. She thinks ‘distraction’, was somewhere on the list of moronic recommendations. Worth a shot. “Do I have our artificial antichrist to blame for this rude interruption of a perfectly satisfying Friday night?”

Root’s frown of pain briefly smoothes to a smile of relief, and Shaw raises a surprised eyebrow. Seems ‘moronic’ was a premature judgment.

“No,” Root says through tight teeth. “Hotel security guard.”

She snorts lightly. “Check didn’t clear?” she jokes, and pulls another stitch that makes Root wince – but not nearly as much as before.

“With the prices they were asking, I wouldn’t have been – ah – surprised. Even if the honeymoon suite did have some – ow, ah – very fancy glass tables.”

She cuts off the excess thread and prepares to start on the next stitch. “What were you doing there?”

Root tilts her head regretfully.

Shaw rolls her eyes. “Fine. Any action I can get in on?”

“Is this not enough for you?” Root flirts – and there’s the characteristic banter she’d been looking for.

She tilts Root’s face for better access and pushes the needle through her skin. “Prefer getting my hands bloody in a different way. Much better at that than this.”

“If I hadn’t seen you do both, I wouldn’t have believed you,” Root says with a smile.

Silence falls, but it’s considerably less tense, and Root’s winces quickly return to her easy smile when the pain of each stitch fades. Shaw wonders it it’s the alcohol or the distraction.

“Bit of a risk coming here,” she says after a few minutes as she finishes up the second cut across Root’s temple.

“Maybe I just wanted to check up on you,” Root jokes with a flirtatious smile that’s just a little too wide for comfort – or for sobriety. She rolls her eyes and pokes the needle through her skin. Root’s smile fades quickly, and she narrows her eyes suspiciously as Shaw continues working. Shaw suppresses her self-satisfied smirk. Maybe a bit of pain will keep Root sober enough to stay serious.

Maybe.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” she asks as she realigns a new suture needle in her hemostat for the last cut.

“No.” Root winces as she pulls open the cut to thread a stitch, but keeps quiet.

“Fall on your head?”

Another stitch. A grimace of pain. “Glass broke my fall.”

 “Dizziness?”

 Her hands move nearly automatically. Fine motor skills were always her forte. 

“No.”

Another stitch. “Nausea?”

Another wince. “No.”

“Double vision?”

Root tilts her head, causing a bead of blood to ooze out of the wound and drip down her already bloody cheek. “Your concern is endearing.”

She pulls a stitch tight, and to her satisfaction, Root’s smile turns into a wince.

“Disappointment,” she corrects, realigning the suture. “Couldn’t have come with something interesting?  Dislocated jaw? Zygomatic arch fracture? Expressive aphasia?” She smiles, imaging the serious but highly amusing symptom of speech and articulation loss. “Finally shut you up.”

Root flinches (at the stitch or the comment, either is fine to her), but her smile is fond.

She finishes the last stitch and snips off the excess suture thread. “Done. Take off your shirt,” she commands without losing a beat.

Root’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

She sighs in annoyance and gestures impatiently. “It’s drenched in blood. There are cuts down to your shoulder, and I can’t see if there’s other damage.”

Root tenses. “There isn’t.”

She raises a curious eyebrow. “I’m giving you a chance to get shirtless around me and suddenly you’re shy? Sure you didn’t fall on your head?”

Though she tilts her head with a nonchalant smile, Root’s hand inches to the edge of her shirt protectively. “Very funny.”

She frowns. Root’s suddenly skittish look is unexpected, especially given her intoxication, and though it’s hidden behind a characteristic smirk, she can see through that by now.  “Not if you’re hurt,” she counters, and Root’s mask briefly flickers to troubled again before she quickly stands and reaches for her coat.

Shaw’s hand shoots out on instinct. “Root.”

Root freezes and eyes the hand on her arm cautiously. Shaw loosens it slightly, leaving a smear of blood from her gloves on her wrist, but holds on.

“Are you hurt?” she demands.

“I can handle it,” Root replies too quickly, and tries to shake her off. 

She holds on. Her gloves aren’t sterile anymore anyway. “I’ll decide that.” She pulls Root closer, scanning her bare neck with sporadically bleeding cuts intently and looking for signs of other damage.

“Did you treat all your patients like this?” Root demands, eyes flashing.

The edge of her shirt is soaked in blood. If it’s from hidden cuts on her shoulder or from the run-off of her neck, she isn’t sure. “Only the ones that piss me off,” she replies, and without warning, pulls on the edge of Root’s shirt and pulls it down her shoulder.

Root hisses in betrayal and steps back, tugging her shirt back up and pressing her hand to her heart.

She’s not nearly fast enough. “Jesus, Root. Is that a muzzle burn?”

Root’s hand clenches into a fist on the edge of her shirt. “No, just a scratch.”

“Bullshit,” she snaps. “I’ve seen it before. I’ve had it before.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s a pistol still hot from firing pressed right above your heart,” she shoots back. “It’s not nothing.”

Root’s jaw clenches and she swallows thickly, defiantly. “It misfired.”

Shaw’s eyes widen, and she suppresses the guffaw of disbelief. Jesus. Dumb luck the only reason Root is still alive. “Whose gun?” she demands. “Samaritan?”

Root’s eyes shoot open. “Sameen.”

She scoffs. “Come on, I know your eternal whisperer chose this apartment in a shadow zone.” Root would never have risked coming by if it wasn’t the case. Not even she would endanger the mission for the sake of a few stitches and half a bottle of scotch. “Was it them?”

Root stays silent for a minute, holding Shaw’s gaze rebelliously, until she finally looks away. “Yes.”

She scoffs in disbelief as Root continues to avoid her gaze. “Misfire.” She frowns, thoughtful, then shakes her head. “Doesn’t fit, you wouldn’t have a muzzle burn.”

Root looks up, jaw still tight and unyielding, but Shaw holds her gaze equally stubbornly. A few cuts, a brawl with a security guard – she knows Root can handle it. But this is something more, and even if Root won’t admit to it, they both know it.

The tense moment finally breaks as Root’s resolve does, and she sighs and shakes her head. Tenderly, she lifts the edge of her shirt, and with a reluctant, disarming smile, admits: “Only misfired on the last bullet.”

She recognizes the bullet graze the second it comes into sight low on Root’s ribs, just below the edge of her bra. Three inches long, deep enough to shred the edges of her skin into a painful looking ridge caked with dried blood. Two days old, if that.

Shaw’s eyes widen and she looks up at her. “Root…”

Root shrugs. “It’s okay, it doesn’t need stitches. The bullet cauterized the wound.”

“That’s not what – “ She cuts off as Root’s eyebrow tilts curiously. Instead, she reaches forward to pull her shirt up higher to look for other injuries. If Root concealed this… but she finds none.

“How?” she asks as she lightly traces the edge of the wound with a glove-clad finger. Root is right, of course, it doesn’t need stitches, but an inch left and it could have a shattered a rib, sending shards into Root’s lungs and having her coughing blood in minutes.

Root sighs. “He wasn’t where I thought he’d be. I rounded the corner, and bam. He got off a few close-quarter shots and got me cornered and disarmed before I could even reach for my gun. Strong as hell, trained. I couldn’t hold him off.” She frowns, and then cringes at the swelling in her eye. The bruise beneath the swelling suddenly clicks – old injury. Root shakes her head to clear it, shaking off the memories. “After the misfire, a knee to the groin took him down and I got away.”

She presses her thumb down each rib along Root’s side, testing for fractures. “Didn’t the Machine warn you?”

It’s not the silence – a second too long – that makes her look up, but the instant tension in Root’s stomach. Root composes her features quickly – but not before she sees the look of uncertainty and a flash of regret.

“Root...”

“She knows what I can handle,” Root counters – too quickly.

Shaw gently pulls down Root’s shirt. The muzzle burn peeks out briefly above the edge. Her jaw clenches at the unnerving reminder of a mission nearly compromised and a soldier almost KIA.

She looks up at Root. “Does she?”

Root looks away uneasily. Her shrug is uncharacteristically half-hearted. “Usually.”

A beat of silence. Then: “She doesn’t have the best track record lately.”

Root finally meets her eyes, frowning curiously and lips turning up in a surprised, bittersweet smile. Shaw resists the urge to bolt at the seamless way Root picked up on the subtle change, because they’re both suddenly remembering the near misses in the Samaritan server facility.

“She knew you’d be worried about me,” Root says soothingly.

“Worried about the mission,” she corrects.

Root’s smile widens and she hums lightly. Shaw’s lips twitch in irritation at the infuriatingly inadequate acknowledgement.

“She hasn’t been in your ear at all, has she?” she demands.

Root hesitates. “She’s a bit quiet lately.”

She offers nothing else, and Shaw huffs crossly. “What would have happened if I hadn’t shown up, Root?”

Root refuses to meet her eyes, and shrugs tiredly. “Samaritan would have sought us out the minute it came online.”

It’s not what she meant, and she thinks Root knows it – and for once, avoided it on purpose.

She brushes past it. “It was too close,” she says firmly instead. “Even if you’d been able to cripple Samaritan, if you’d been caught and tortured, you’d still have gotten us all killed.”

“No, just myself,” Root says with a shrug. “It was a risk worth taking.”

“According to the Machine?”

A beat. “Partly.”

She purses her lips. Great. So she wasn’t wrong about the kamikaze aspect of that mission.

“And was this?” She gestures to the muzzle burn, and Root pulls her shirt a little higher self-consciously.

Root looks up at her, eyes flashing passionately. “It all is, Sameen. We can’t lose this war. It’s foolish to think we won’t lose some soldiers along the way.”

She reaches for her jacket again. This time, Shaw lets her, frozen in thought. But not for long.

“You’re wrong,” she says sharply, and Root looks up in surprise. “We need you.”

Root’s surprised look lingers, but her smile turns slowly flirtatious. “You need me?”

The typical quip breaks the tension, and Shaw scoffs – irritation covering reluctant relief. “That stapedectomy really affected your hearing, didn’t it?”

“Ouch.” She shrugs on her jacket, but doesn’t turn to go.

Shaw shakes her head. “In this war, you’re not some soldier to be sacrificed – you’re the only direct line to the Machine we have.”

Root tilts her head playfully. “You almost sound worried about me.”

She rolls her eyes. “About the mission.” Get it through your head, Root, she thinks, but keeps mum. “We could never win this war without you. We need you.” Root’s smile widens, but Shaw bites back the exasperated comment, and instead reaches forward and adjusts a crooked stitch pointedly. “And we need you whole.”

“Tall order, doc,” Root says with a regretful smile. “There are an awful lot of people out there who’d love me dead.”

“And it would be much easier to keep you from giving them what they want if you could protect yourself in hand-to-hand combat,” she points out. “You know, keep them from putting your head through glass tables and ruin my night.” Root at least has the decency to look somewhat embarrassed. Mostly coy, but close enough. “Plus I’d rest a lot easier awaiting orders in this pain in the ass of a cover knowing you didn’t need backup every mission the eye in the sky has you on.”

Root’s smile widens. “Any ideas?”

Shaw returns the smile, but it’s considerably more wicked than Root’s playful one.

Oh yeah. She’s got a few.

“You know you shouldn’t lead a girl on,” Root says with a mysterious smile when she saunters in a week later and drops her towel on the end table.

Shaw grunts as she throws her weight against the heavy leather couch and shoves it against the wall. “What?”

“’My place at five, prepare to sweat’?” Root puts a hand on her hip, jutting it out and showing off her workout clothes – a skin-tight seamless blue tank, black low-rise capri tights and light pink sneakers. “I almost wore something completely different...”

Shaw scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Keep it in your pants.” She lets the new martial arts mats fall with a smack in the space cleared in the center of the small apartment. “Grab the gloves. We’ll start with pressure points.”

Root raises an eyebrow. “Kinky.”

She side-eyes the still smiling woman. “Root, focus, or I’ll knock you out to prove a point.”

Root purses her lips to control the smile, but pulls on the light MMA sparring gloves and joins her on the mat. Shaw flexes her fingers and stretches a few muscle groups. Root copies her, and Shaw watches her from the corner of her eye. The stitches look good, healed, definitely ready to come out. The muzzle burn is also nearly healed, and though she can’t see the bullet graze, the fact that Root is wearing a skin-tight top says enough. It’s a satisfying thing to see, not just because it advocates for her medical skills (those have never been in doubt, despite the bunch of bleeding hearts who kicked her out – good riddance), but because it’ll get Root back quicker into whatever ops the Machine needs of her.

And this time, if she has any say about it, she’ll be prepared. 

“Before we start,” she says after a moment, straightening. “This isn’t exactly going to be painless. For either of us, but let’s be real, mostly for you.” She can’t help smiling smugly, and Root laughs. “If you need a break, tell me.”

Root bends over exaggeratedly, stretching her hamstrings, brushing her shoulder past Shaw’s hip as she goes, and never breaking eye contact. “Shall we decide on a safe word?”

Jesus, this woman is incorrigible.

She rolls her eyes, steps away, and ignores Root’s playful pout as she straightens.

“Pressure points. The most accessible are in the torso and arms. Pain in the ass when someone’s wearing Kevlar, but the arms are usually still vulnerable.”

She steps closer, reaching for Root’s arm, who lifts it without comment. She ignores the cocky smile as she takes hold and slides her thumb into the grove of Root’s muscles.

“Brachial plexus, here.” Root’s smile is quickly replaced with a very satisfying wince. “Also, here.” A little higher, a twitch of pain. “The round of the shoulder is also a good one, though it’s usually protected.” She pushes her thumb into the fabric over the front of Root’s right shoulder, and Root crumbles back with a cry of pain – completely disproportionate to the jab.

She raises a confused eyebrow at Root’s continued grimace as she massages her shoulder. “Come on, I didn’t do it that hard.”

Root looks up briefly and tries to smile reassuringly, but another wince takes its place as she continues to seethe and put pressure on her shoulder.

“You know,” Root says shakily after a moment. “A doctor should know their patient’s medical history better than you do.”

A beat of confused silence. Then Shaw’s eyes widen in realization. “Oh.” Gunshot to the shoulder – relatively recent. Right. “Sorry.”

Damn it. Maybe the damn bleeding hearts had a point.

Root straightens slowly, her usually impenetrable smile back on, but her shoulder still sags.

“I’m okay.”

Just because there’s a reason she didn’t stay a doctor doesn’t mean she wasn’t good at it – and Root’s whole posture screams pain-aggravated injury. She shakes her head. It’s a bad start, and Root’s skittish, brave-faced smile is not the smile of a student who should get a few more punches – however much Root might provoke and deserve it.

“Okay, no more nearly putting you out of the game,” she says with a reassuring smile, stepping back. “Find your own pressure points.”

Root frowns. “What? On myself?”

“No.” She extends her arms, opening up her torso as a target. “On me.”

Root’s smile of relief is nearly endearing – at least, until she steps forward, smiles a little wider, and presses her thumb into her brachial nerve.

She tries to control the cringe. Root presses higher, keeping her eyes on Shaw’s face to gauge the pain reaction and the correct location. It’s been a while since someone’s been in her space like this, but she supposes what she has with Root comes as close to trust as anything will.

“How does revenge feel?” she asks with a begrudging smile after a minute of effective temporary nerve damage.

Root looks up through her eyelashes and tilts her head fondly. “Almost sweet when it’s as intimate as this.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, but resists the urge to step back as Root continues to find more spots. She gives instructions only sparingly – Root paid attention during her – albeit slightly too enthusiastic – instructions.

In inflicting pain, Root is no amateur – she knows that from personal experience. But this is different. When she finds a point, she doesn’t press through. She sees the wince, nods, and moves on to find the next. It’s just a little unnerving – pun intended. It’s not what she’s used to – Grice and other agents she trained showed no mercy, in line with ISA expectation, and their training sessions often left her with more bruises than them. But Root is disconcertingly gentle: the far too soft press of warm fingers, the hint of discomfort backed off too soon to feel pain, the focused, professional expression on Root’s face. She isn’t even flirting, for God’s sake. But Shaw’s skin crawls as Root moves lower and gently cradles her hand as she presses into the thenar – the space between her thumb and forefinger, truly effective for causing pain – again, too softly.

“A little harder, come on,” she says suddenly, breaking the quiet – and with it, it seems, Root’s professionalism, because the woman looks up with a suddenly teasing smile. 

“Is that what you like, mm?”

Root’s fingers slip unnecessarily between her own as she presses harder.

Yes, she definitely spoke too soon about the professionalism.

She snatches her hand back and breaks the eye contact.

“That’s all of them for the arm.”

“And it was just getting good.”

Without warning, she shoots out her hand in a spear hand strike and taps the dip in Root’s throat, right between her collarbones. Instantly – and as expected – the woman doubles over, reaches for her throat, and begins to cough.

“What was that?!” she asks loudly between coughs.

“The cough point,” she replies, hiding the hint of a smirk at Root’s look of betrayal. “One of the most effective pressure points on the body.”

Root continues to cough, looking up at her through her lashes and massaging her throat. “And what was it for?”

She holds back the snide comment (“Sass.”).“To show you what I’ll be feeling. Because you’re going to do it a lot harder than I just did.”

“You bet I will,” Root says as she straightens.

“Use an extended knuckle strike, like this,” she explains as she moves Root’s hand into the correct shape: a basic fist with forefinger knuckle extending out above the rest.

“That’s not what you did,” Root observes.

She grins. “I did a spear hand strike. Feel free to copy me if you feel like breaking your fingers.”

“Show-off.”

Her grin widens, but she steps back and lifts her chin. “Shoot.”

Root doesn’t waste time, and Shaw only has a second to suppress the flinch before the pain shooting to the very core of her and the cough reflex has her doubled over clutching her throat. Every cough pulls at her gut, but it’s impossible to resist – a reflex of the body more natural than breathing, though decidedly more painful.

“Woah.”

She looks up to see Root looking down at her with wide, shocked eyes, her hand still clenched in a fist like she’s forgotten what she was supposed to do with it.

“Yeah,” she simply replies through coughs. She remembers ISA training – instant punishment included push-ups (the classic), planking (for an hour or two), and strikes to “Conception Vessel 22”, the cough point. Even if you could resist the pain, the inevitable coughing fit left you humiliated and defenseless in front of your trainer and comrades. Convessing, they called it. Good times.

“I really didn’t even do it that hard, did I?” Root asks as she gets to her feet.

“No. That’s why it’s so effective. Remember this one, okay? And next time, harder.”

Root nods seriously. “Of course.”

“You also don’t have to hit someone to trigger it.” She steps closer, and Root drops her hands as she raises an eyebrow. “In close quarters, it’s just as effective. Choke me.”

Root’s eyebrows shoot higher, along with the corners of her mouth. “I didn’t know you were into that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Root…”

Root clenches her lips shut over a smile, and lifts her hands to her neck. “Like this?” It’s barely a chokehold, but she supposes it’ll do for now.

“Yes, but press your thumbs into the cough point.” Root complies, and Shaw prepares for the cough that doesn’t come. She rolls her eyes again. “Harder.”

Root purses her lips again to hide a teasing smile – seriously, demanding professionalism is an uphill battle with this woman – but thankfully stays mum.

Shaw – not so much, because Root’s thumbs push deeper and suddenly her throat closes off as she begins to cough again. Root lets go right away.

“See?” she sputters as she breathes in deep and expands her screaming windpipe.

“Vividly,” Root says with a regretful grimace. She brushes her fingers lightly over the red spot between Shaw’s collarbones when she straightens up. Her own chest is a mirror image, but Root seems not to notice. “Let’s not do that again.”

“As long as you promise to use it in a fight when it’s not me you’re facing.”

“Cross my heart, coach,” Root says with a playful smile.

Shaw suppresses the urge to either roll her eyes or return it.

“There’s another very effective point just a little higher up,” she says instead, expression stern as she presses lightly into Root’s neck – the carotid. She briefly feels the pulse – fast (pain-induced adrenaline, no doubt) – before she pulls back. “Hit hard, and you’ll trigger a vasovagal response – fainting. Try it on me, use your thumb, but not too hard.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Root says with a wicked smile as she steps closer.

Shaw narrows her eyes. “Remember I can knock you out before you can make me pass out.”

Root clicks her tongue sadly. “Where’s a taser when you need one?”

“Hopefully by the end of today, you won’t need one.”

“Maybe,” Root says with a smile, and steps in and presses her thumb straight to her carotid.    

It’s not enough to knock her out, by far, but if her heartbeat hadn’t been just a little faster from the recent convessing, it would have been close to bringing her to her knees. Her knees buckle slightly and she steps away as her head swims. Root’s hand shoots out to steady her – unnecessary, the concern more annoying than endearing.

“Good,” she says when her vision clears. “Also, very effective with a simple knifehand strike. Try it – slowly.”

Root keeps her hand on her arm, keeping her steady and close, and slams the other down in a knifehand strike. She slows as soon as she hits skin of her neck – enough to learn the movement, but beyond some palpitations, keep Shaw standing. Shaw nods in approval. “Good. But don’t use it when we’re fighting.”

“I promise to use my words if you promise not to go to bed angry,” Root teases.

She rolls her eyes. It makes her dizzy, but she hides it, and whips the hair out of her eyes and shakes Root’s hand off her arm. “There’s a few more in the neck and face, I’ll point them out.”

Root steps back with a small smile and watches.

There are plenty more pressure points in the neck and face, but most are simply too advanced to bother showing. She goes for the classics: Gallbladder 21, in the trapezius between the neck and shoulder (Root’s elbow strike barely winds her, thank god for her muscles guarding the nerve); Triple Warmer 17, the point behind her jaw and beneath her ear (Root’s strong fingers find that one very efficiently); Small Intestine 17, beneath her jaw (Root smiles far too widely when she tries a chokehold again); and the rub point high on her upper lip (Root’s fingers linger annoyingly on her lips as she ‘finds the right spot’ before Shaw slaps her hand away and moves on).

“Good, now, torso,” she says, massaging below her upper lip with her tongue. “Not as useful as arm and neck, but there are a few worth knowing. Solar plexus, which is the less painful version of the cough point, and the rib points, here, here, and here. Go ahead.”

Root steps into her space before she even gets the invitation, and her hands come up to her ribs, resting lightly on both sides just below the edge of her sports bra. “Here?”

“No,” she says through tight, irritated lips. There is really no need for Root to put both her hands on her body, and she pushes one away. “Here.”

Root’s hand moves a little higher. “Here?” She presses down lightly – not nearly enough to evoke any kind of pressure point.

Shaw holds Root’s gaze pointedly. “Root, are you finding pressure points or just feeling me up?”

Root’s smile is far from innocent. “Can’t I do both?”

“Want me to go back to my first approach?”

Root purses her lips and moves her hand to the correct spot. “Business it is,” she murmurs with pout, and digs her knuckle between her ribs.

“Yes, there,” Shaw says with a wince, and Root presses the next.  “These are hit best with a knee to the chest. It’ll definitely wind someone and if you’re really lucky, it’ll break a rib which will pierce the liver, and your opponent will bleed out in a few hours. Try it.”

“Good thing luck is rarely on my side lately,” Root says with an apprehensive smile as she steps closer. “You’re the doctor here, not me.”

“I’ll be fine, come on,” she says with a laugh. “Grab the back of my neck or my shoulder, pull me close, and at the same time that you pull me down, slam your knee into my right side.”

Root tentatively does as she’s told, linking her hand behind her neck and stepping in close – annoyingly emphasizing the height difference. Root catches her sullen look and smiles like she knows what she’s thinking, and Shaw has to resist the urge to knock her off her feet.

“Left knee to right ribs, go,” she says instead.

Root nods and does as she’s told. Her knee connects with a dull thud, triggering the pressure points and making her wince.

“Yeah, like that,” she says with an approving though slightly pained smile. “Go again, other side, get it into your body.”

Root tightens her hands behind her neck, bringing her just a little closer, and tilts her head with a smile. “I’ll be gentle.”

Surprisingly, she is. Not ineffectively so, but her movements are controlled – loose muscles in her legs pulled back and shot up to build maximum momentum, but tensed and stopped as soon as her knee brushes the loose fabric of her top. It’s control she wouldn’t have expected from a beginner. It’s the light-tap sparring that builds muscle memory and trains skills but doesn’t injure. Even through the winces – pain isn’t injury, after all – Shaw can’t help but smile approvingly as Root repeatedly knocks her breath out of her until they’re both winded.

“Good,” she says through slightly labored breathing after a few minutes of training. “You’ve got it down.”

Root brings down her knee, lets her head sag, and stands breathing heavily. Shaw smiles wryly – strangely, it’s often the controlled, light sparring instead of the power-oriented fighting that winds fighters best. Root’s face shines with a thin layer of sweat as her chest rises and falls, barely seeming to notice Shaw’s closeness – or her hands still linked and sweaty at the back of her neck. After a moment, Shaw raises an eyebrow and clears her throat.

Root looks up in surprise, her face inches from Shaw’s own, and her face breaks into a smile that makes Shaw’s heart jump in a mix of irritation and something discomforting that she can’t quite place. Thankfully, Root steps back without comment and the feeling is gone in an instant.

She clears her throat self-consciously and shakes it off.   “So now you know where most pressure points are.” She picks up her hand wraps next to the suturing kit on the table, and begins swiftly wrapping her fists as she talks. “Most of the movements to hit them are quick, like a whiplash. You don’t need a lot of power, just speed. What I’ve seen just now, you’ve got it. Thing is, if I just stand here and let you hit them, you can pretty much do anything to me that you want to do.”

Root’s flirtatious smile hasn’t faltered for an instant. “Anything?”

Shaw ignores her and begins resolutely wrapping her other hand. “A real fight is different. Fear changes things. Pain changes things. Heart beating a mile a minute, mouth dry, tunnel vision – all there is is your opponent, the threat, and your complete dependence on your own strength and speed to survive. The rush of adrenaline makes you lose focus.”

She looks up as she finishes the wrap to see Root’s eyes finishing their meaningful trek up and down her body. When she looks up, instead of looking even mildly embarrassed, Root’s eager smile simply widens.

“I feel that.”

“I’m serious, Root. Your type of adrenaline does not compare,” she huffs with an eye roll. “Not only that – hitting someone for real isn’t fun – it hurts, they get stronger from the adrenaline, and unless you’re in a rage or full of vengeance, your next punch will most likely be weaker.”

“Vengeance missions are off the table. She’s too moral for that,” Root teases with a smile.

“That makes one of you,” Shaw throws back as she steps in close with her wrapped hands at her sides. Root raises a curious eyebrow and simply looks her up and down again. The urge to punch unannounced rises up at Root’s eager, borderline lewd smile, but she resists. That’s not what this is about.

“So,” she says simply instead, looking up at Root (still smiling) and leaving her body undefended. “Hit me.”

Of all the things she could have demanded, it seems that one was the least expected, and surprise, concern, and a hint of something else that brings back memories of tie-wraps and a heated iron flash across Root’s face in rapid succession.

“What?”

“Hit me. Nose, jaw, cheek, take your pick.”

Concern and amusement war on Root’s face, but her smile is ultimately too playful to be anything but Root being coy – again. “No, I’m not going to do that.”

“You already have,” Shaw points out with an irritated eye roll. 

“That’s different.” She purses her lips. but Root’s smile doesn’t falter. “I can grab some tie-wraps instead. More our style, wouldn’t you say?”

“Root…”

“No,” Root says simply. “It’ll hurt.”

She sighs in aggravation. “Your hands need to know the feeling.”

Root tilts her head pointedly. “I mean it’ll hurt you.”

“So did being tased, but you had no problem with that,” she points out.

Instantly, Root’s concerned look makes way for a nostalgic, teasing smile, like the memory of their first meeting is the highlight of her recent past. “I didn’t know you yet,” she singsongs playfully.

“Funny, the more I know you, the more the urge to tase you grows.”

Root sighs in exasperation. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“I can think of better ways to wake up than 50,000 volts to the gut.”

“Believe me, so can I,” Root purrs back, her pupils wide as they roam over her bare shoulders, her lip subtly pulled between her teeth, and her smile unacceptably shameless.

Shaw’s reaction is instantaneous, and her punch to Root’s ribs quickly wipes the smile off her face.

“Ow!” she exclaims indignantly. “What was that for?”

Shaw tilts her head with a self-satisfied smile, searching for an adequate explanation. The adrenaline speech comes to mind, and her smile turns to a smirk. “Losing focus,” she replies simply.

Root’s smile crawls back on her face as she rubs her ribs, and she looks down at Shaw through her lashes. “Can you blame me when my instructor looks like you?”

Yes, she can.

She shoots forward with another jab to Root’s other side (avoiding the graze), then quickly hops back, hands loosely curled into fists by her chest.

“Will you stop that?”

“Make me.”

Root’s only response is an even more flirtatious grin. It isn’t quite a quip, but it’s definitely enough of one to earn:

 “Ow!” Root massages her cheek, looking at her incredulously. “You’re like a dog with a bone.”

Shaw instantly thinks of Bear, but the swell of affection is muted by amused annoyance. “Except my bite is worse than my bark.”

Root smiles again, despite the redness of her cheekbone. “Mm, biting. Would you like that?”

“I’d rather do this,” she snaps and shoots forward. Root anticipates, but she’s not fast enough, and she hops back sucking her bottom lip into her mouth and massaging her jaw.

“Kiss with a fist,” she mutters with a frown, but her smile never falters.

Shaw suppressed her irritation – it’s growing, and she feels it in the strength of her punches.  “Send one back and I’ll hold off,” she says with a challenging smile.

“With the fist, or without?”

Her next punch is just a little harder.

“I can do this all day,” she murmurs as she hops back. She’s both miffed and impressed to see Root’s smile hasn’t weakened.

 “You can put that stamina to much better use, you know,” Root throws back.

The punch Shaw returns leaves an ache in her fist, and Root breathes out heavily, hunched over and favoring her left side. Shaw feels a twinge of guilt, but the annoyance and urge to get Root to return a punch suppresses it. Mostly.

“Hit me and I’ll stop,” she offers.

Root’s smile is back in an instant, and she straightens and licks her lips. “I’d rather hit on you.”

Root’s smile falters in an equal instant and she curls around Shaw’s punch to her side with a hiss of pain.

“Ow.”

The pained grimace lingers enough to keep Root’s unwavering smile off her face. Finally. 

Shaw drops her hands instantly. “Root,” she hisses, voice low, and Root looks up, still cringing. “Defend yourself.”

Root rolls her eyes.

Shaw clenches her hands back into fists. Enough of this. As fun as finally inflicting a little pain after months of inaction is, Root getting beat up again is the exact opposite of what today was supposed to accomplish. And getting angry is not helping avoid that outcome.

“I’m serious, Root,” she snaps.

Root straightens, still massaging her side, but her smile is back. “Aren’t you always?”

She sighs in irritation and raises her fists to fighting stance. “Quit your flirting, and fight.”

Root eyes her fists, but if Shaw intimidates her, she doesn’t show it, and just tilts her head playfully. “But the first is so much more fun for both of us.”

She clenches her fists, and hisses the words between her teeth: “This isn’t about either of us, Root. This is about winning the war, completing the mission.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much…” Root drawls pointedly – and has to dodge a punch.

“Don’t lose focus,” she snaps, her anger peaking. “You get caught, we’re all dead.” She hops on the balls of her feet, slowly turning a circle around Root and closing in. She’s satisfied to see that Root’s smile drops just a fraction and she looks between her fists uncertainly. “The eye in the sky can’t help you when you’re cornered with a Samaritan agent on your six.”

“She can see it coming,” Root replies, but she lifts her hands warily in a loose fighting stance and keeps Shaw in her line of sight. Shaw suppresses the smirk at Root’s sudden apprehension. She’s not screwing around anymore, and it seems Root finally sees it.

Good.

“Maybe the Machine can see it,” Shaw says, continuing to circle, “but she can’t block a punch –” she shoots forward, launching a straight punch at Root’s face, who snaps up her arm and knocks it sideways. “ – that’s up to you.” She lingers for a second with her arm still blocked by Root’s face, allowing Root a moment to take a breath.

“She can’t get you out of a chokehold – ” She shoots her hand forward against Root’s neck, digging in her fingers and pushing hard. For once Root doesn’t look like she enjoys it, and slams her elbow at her brachial plexus to dislodge her. Shaw cringes, but it just serves to hide the pleased smirk. “ – that’s up to you.”

She steps forward, forcing Root back, and brings up both her hands in the shape of a gun. She takes another step, aiming at the muzzle burn above Root’s shirt. Root breathes in sharply and takes another step back. “She can’t disarm an agent and knock him out – ” She cocks an imaginary hammer and takes aim, and Root – eyes wide and chest heaving with memories, no doubt – throws her hands forward and knocks the imaginary gun aside.

This time, Shaw doesn’t give her a break, and throws another fast punch that Root blocks.

“– All of that – ”

She throws a knifehand to her carotid that Root dodges.

 “– is – ”

She aims a blow to her side. Root twists away and takes a step back.

“– up – ”

She slams her elbow at Root’s face. Root ducks.

 “– to – ”

She throws a waist-high kick. Root takes the hit, and steps back.

“– you.”

Shaw follows after, relentless, and sends a powerful sequence of punches at Root’s solar plexus. Root blocks and steps back and back and back until her back hits the wall behind her. Her eyes widen in fear, and Shaw knows what’s coming before she sees it. It’s what she’d been was looking for, waiting for, hoping for: a fast, hard and desperate punch straight to her jaw powerful enough to snap her face sideways and make her hiss in pain.

It hurts. A lot more than she expected from Root. But the pain is more satisfying than she could have ever anticipated. She steps back, rubbing her jaw and grinning widely.

Finally. 

She finds Root’s eyes, and her smile widens. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Root still breathes fast, eyes wide and wary, but Shaw just keeps grinning at her, her slightly reddened hands loose and unthreatening by her side. Slowly, Root’s breathing slows and a hint of a triumphant, slightly surprised smile washes over her face. Sometimes the best motivation for action is a little fear and pain, and Root’s slowly growing confident smile is the best outcome she could have asked for. Shaw nods, pleased, and takes a step back.

But, to her surprise, Root doesn’t follow. She looks again, and she’s startled to see Root’s smile has frozen, faltered, before it really made it fully to her lips and her gaze is distant. Shaw drops her own grin and waits as Root lightly licks her lips, lost in thought.

 “Root?”

Root looks up, suddenly guarded again, and Shaw sees memories of previous fights in her eyes… and something else. Like the flashes of the future suddenly hit her, and she doesn’t like the image. Fighting in silence. Fighting alone. She leans back slowly against the wall, and Shaw sees the fight completely leave her.

“I…” Root stops, and the silence stretches. Then she says softly: “You’re right, Sameen.”

Shaw waits, barely breathing.

Root shakes her head, staring out at a far point. “As much as I hate saying it, she can’t protect me anymore. It’s like Samaritan has drained her supply of words. She has a set number a day. Forty. Twelve.” A beat. “One.” She looks up and quirks her lips in a humorless smile. “And shielding me from danger that she knows I’ll at least survive… It just isn’t the priority. Keeping me whole isn’t the priority.”

“The mission is,” Shaw supplies, her voice softer and more apologetic than she means for it to be. 

Root laughs softly, mirthlessly. “I suppose. She doesn’t show me the bigger picture, she never has. But this time, she’s not wasting words on me anymore.”

Root looks down, and the silence stretches.

“Then let’s make sure she doesn’t need to,” Shaw says finally, firmly.

Root looks up, so uncharacteristically small and vulnerable that the words of comfort come easy, even to her.

“You can do this,” she continues, smiling encouragingly. “I don’t have any illusions that I can make you a Navy Seal worthy fighter in a day, but if we build on your strengths, if we focus and stick with it – you can do this.” Root looks at her, searching. “You won’t need anyone’s protection anymore. Not mine, not hers. Just your own wits and a knifehand to a carotid.”

Root smiles – honest, surprised, and grateful – and perhaps this is a better outcome. Not motivation through fear or pain, but simple encouragement. She suppresses the snort of amusement. Perhaps she’s better off developing her own tactics, instead of copying the ISA’s.

“Come on,” she says with a smile, and steps back on the mats. Root follows, and they face each other. “Fight me. Hit me. Really.” Root smiles at her adamant tone, and she pushes on. “I mean, I’m not going to beg… but seriously, Root, this cover is so boring. A few good punches would be highly appreciated.”

Root laughs, and Shaw can’t help grinning to see her cheered up. Root as Eeyore from a few weeks back does not need repeating.

“Don’t be afraid to hurt me,” she continues, “just stay away from the pressure points I warned about unless you really want to knock me out – which is fair practice, I suppose, but you’ve had too much experience keeping me unconscious for my liking.”

Root smiles happily at the sly flirt – as she knew she would.

“Alright.”

“Do what feels right. I attack, present you a target, and you hit the pressure point. I’ll correct where I can.” She waits for Root’s nod, and then raises her wrapped hands into a loose fighting stance.

Root warily lifts her gloved hands, copying her stance. “What, just like that?” she asks, eyeing Shaw as she bounces closer lightly on the balls of her feet. “No punching stance, no tiger hand strike instruction?”

She laughs. “It really wouldn’t have a point unless I give you regular lessons.”

Root’s smile, for once, is only marginally flirtatious. “I’d be up for that.”

“I’m sure Samaritan would be too,” she points out.

Root smile turns sheepish and she ducks her head behind her balled fists.

“Go with your gut. Unless you convert training into instinct like I have, your gut’s what’s going to save you out there.”

“If you don’t save me first.”

“For the mission, I’m there.” She hops on her feet, circling slightly on the mat, and Root matches her movement. “For you – meh, I might accidentally miss the bus,” she teases.

“Ah, the bus.” Root clucks her tongue sympathetically. “Sucks being poor, doesn’t it?”

“Your god owes me a spa weekend when this war is over.”

Root holds eye contact as she continues to lightly circle. “Sounds like a date.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, takes a breath, and attacks.

Root is ready, and steps sideways, landing a quick jab to Shaw’s brachial plexus and curling her body around the follow-up round-house kick that Shaw lands in her side. Root flinches, but jumps back with a self-satisfied smile when Shaw massages the inside of her arm and flexes her numbed fingers.

She nods approvingly. “Don’t settle for one point though. You’ve got the speed, I’ve seen it. Jab, kick, jab – three different points, triple the effect.”

Root nods, and they start again. Shaw slows her movements only slightly, landing a light punch to Root’s ribs – her left arm will probably get sore from always hitting Root’s right and avoiding the bullet graze – before Root elbows her exposed shoulder, and follows up with a knee to her (consciously unprotected) ribs and a jab to the back of her jaw when she exposes the area – Root needs the practice, after all.

Root jumps back with a smile.

“Good! I left my ribs exposed, my neck, and you took advantage.”

Her next attack is quicker, but so is Root. She sidesteps the punch Shaw throws at her, jams her fist into her arm, and presses the knuckles of a knifehand against the point above her top lip with enough momentum and pressure that Shaw briefly fears for the integrity of her nose. Her neck bends back in response, and Root presses her free elbow hard into her trapezius. Even as her arms shoot up to knock Root’s attack off, she sags to her knee in automatic response.

“You’re making it easy,” Root says with a pout when she jumps back.

“I’m letting you practice, there’s a difference. Go again.”

They do. Root blocks a punch instead of side-stepping, and Triple Warmer 17 gets another good jab. The next time, Root slides into her space before she can bring her knee up in a kick, and applies the close-quarters knee strike they’d practiced. Small Intestine 17 gets triggered in a choke when Shaw keeps her neck unprotected, and Root combines a tight grapple in her brachial plexus with a meaningful but harmless jab to her solar plexus. A few more rounds later, and Root’s smile continues to grow. Shaw doesn’t correct her, even as she massages the sore points. She needs the practice, and though it feels strange, to say the least, to move slowly and leave vital points exposed, training recognition of opportunities is half the skill – a skill Root seems to pick up well.

A few rounds later, though, she can’t get her hand into a fist anymore from the ache in her upper arm. Root notices.

“I thought you said I’d be the one in pain tonight?” she points out.

Shaw shakes off the ache – pressure points are annoying in the way they resist pain depression the ISA endlessly trained. Numbing, nausea, coughing – no height of pain threshold can overcome them. “The night’s still young,” she teases back.

“Not too late to decide on that safe word.”

Shaw smirks at the challenge in Root’s eyes, flexes her knuckles, and attacks again.

Root’s block shoots up with equal speed, and their arms connect with a sharp stab of pain that makes them both smile, pull back, and begin to circle again.

Root is fast, that much is clear, and the potential is there. Shaw repeats attacks, lets Root play with different blocks, anything that comes naturally, and soon Root blocks a basic punch and follows up with a pressure point punch so naturally it’s like she was made for it. Shaw alters the direction of the punch, adds another, and the exercise starts again. Every punch comes faster. Every block more efficient.

Soon enough, her left arm is basically out of the running from the repeated strikes to the inside of her arm. Brachial neuropraxia. So much fun. And she can’t use her other arm unless she wants to open up Root’s stitches and side. It’s a challenge she hadn’t anticipated, and Root’s relentless jabs make every fight that much more interesting. Gone is the gentleness of the pressure point exercises, and though Root’s face still breaks into a flirtatious, challenging smile every time the fighting brings them close, the strength in her punches and blocks never falters and she keeps fighting.

Shaw switches to her right arm, but Root sees it and angles her left side forward, presenting only targets she knows Shaw will never hit. Shaw catches her eyes and sees the challenge. Without warning, she throws a punch with her left, which Root blocks, and then quickly follows it with a roundhouse kick to Root’s stomach. Root’s double-armed block is almost ISA-approved. The follow-up knifehand strike to her carotid is definitely straight from the manual. She freezes even before the blow lands, bracing against the risk of fainting, but the strike slows as soon as it hits, and Root steps in and cradles her neck to keep her from falling, threading her fingers in her hair as she does. She sighs in relief when all that hits is a spell of dizziness and a sharp stab of pain.

“You did mention all I would need was a knifehand straight to the carotid,” Root says, breathing heavily and holding her close.

“Yes, good,” she hisses, suppressing the lingering pain.

Root smiles in triumph, but doesn’t pull away, keeping her knuckles pressed into her neck and the other pulling back her hair. She frowns in confusion and tries to pull away, Root’s sudden closeness and knowing, widening smile becoming slightly more disconcerting every moment she holds her in place. Root holds on and tilts her head with a toying smile.

“Heart beating a mile a minute during a real fight, you said?”

Shaw swallows self-consciously and suddenly feels the pulse of her carotid artery against Root’s steady knuckles.

“Either you’re horribly out of shape – which I know you’re not – or you’re losing focus, too. I wonder, is it fear, pain…” She feels her heart skip a beat, and Root’s smile widens. “Or something else?”

Before Root’s self-satisfied smirk can grow any wider, Shaw grabs Root’s wrist, digs her thumb into the thenar muscle and twists. Instantly, Root’s smile falters and she hisses in pain and steps back. Shaw moves with her, twisting her arm and forming an automatic figure four arm lock – the Swan Song Set, ISA called it, for both the shape of the victim’s trapped arm and for their inevitable downfall. Root tries to step out of it, but falters, and Shaw lets the momentum nearly carry her to the ground. She stops the movement a second short, hip-chucking Root to keep her standing – or at least, holding on for dear life like a dip in a fast-paced tango.

“Am I losing focus?”

Root hisses in pain, but – miraculously – laughs. “Teach me that one next.”

Shaw can’t help but smile back at Root’s sudden eagerness. Her smile is a challenge, a come-on, and commitment, all in one. Root is in, finally, fully – and Shaw tilts her head playfully.

“Oh, this old thing?” She intensifies the lock, and Root hisses and closes her eyes, but smiles and nods. “Mm, maybe.” She takes a step left – into Root, who pivots on her feet to keep from falling.

“The great thing about this one, is the total control.” She takes a small step forward, keeping her hip check against Root’s to keep her from falling, but tipping her further and making Root arch her neck to fight the discomfort of the lock.

“I can take you anywhere.”

A step back – Root scrambles to follow as Shaw and the pain (no denying that) guides her.

 “Move you any way I want.”

Another step. Root goes with the movement like a dancer acquiescing to her partner’s steps.

“You’re completely dependent.”

Shaw lifts the pressure against her hip and instantly Root loses her balance, falling sideways and grabbing hold of Shaw with her free hand to hold herself steady.

“No, no, no, no,” Shaw says with an admonishing click of her tongue as she removes Root’s hand from her bicep. Root groans in annoyance, but stays silent, too focused on resisting the pain and fighting back to talk.

Shaw smiles. Root at her mercy is so much more enjoyable than she would ever have expected. The woman squirms against the discomfort, pivots her weight to keep from falling, and alternates between giving in – head back, throat free, muscles slack – and fighting back – small, futile movements of her hips that only send her more off-balance, sporadic tension in her body that give away her intent quicker than if she’d announced it, and a glare in her eyes that’s more amused challenge than true venom.

So enjoyable.

She counters the next escape attempt with ease and shakes her head with a smile when Root catches her confident gaze. “I’m in control here.” She tightens her hand on Root’s wrist. Root’s breathing hitches, and she reaches out to grab her biceps again instantly. Shaw blocks easily and digs into a nerve in Root’s hand to prove a point.

“You wouldn’t want me to put your other arm in a lock as well, would you?”

Root’s breathing hitches again, but her grimace flickers suddenly to a smile. “This feels like a trick question.”

Root at her mercy – very enjoyable. Root enjoying it right back – the pressure against her hip feels suddenly much different than an effective fulcrum and her smile far is too flirtatious – not half as appealing.

With an irritated huff, she steps back and lets go. Root smacks down hard against the mat with a cry of surprise.

Shaw suppresses a snort of laughter. “Oh, sorry, didn’t the Machine see that coming?”

Root laughs freely and massages her wrist as she looks up at her from the ground.

“How do I get out of something like that?”

“The arm lock?” She snorts a laugh. “You don’t.”

“Alright, not the arm lock then. A grab. A choke. A headlock.”

Shaw nods. “I’ll show you.” She pulls Root to her feet. “First rule: always go against the thumb. Grab me.” Root’s face breaks instantly into a smile, and Shaw quickly puts up her hand. “My wrist, specifically.”

Root’s smile widens knowingly – she has to suppress a huff of annoyance at where she could have expected the grab if she hadn’t intervened – but complies without comment. 

“Your forefinger and thumb meet, but if I twist my wrist against your thumb, like this, and bend my elbow as I pull, there’s nothing you can do.” Her wrist slips harmlessly out from between Root’s fingers. “Same for underhand grab.” She demonstrates again, twisting against Root’s thumb and pulling off a flawless release. “Two-handed is a bit more difficult, but again, against the thumb – or thumbs in this case.” Root grabs her, and she twists her wrist first against the far thumb, then the other, and fluently follows up the last movement with an elbow strike that taps lightly against Root’s sternum. Root takes a small step back, but the hit was too light to cause anything but surprise. She smiles. “Combines very well with a counterattack.”

“Sounds tempting.”

She tilts her head in mock deliberation. “I prefer the breaking fingers approach, but yes, it is. That’s the second rule: attack hard, then run. Try it.”

Root does. The first try is clumsy, but she corrects, closing her fingers over Root’s fist and showing her the movement. The second time is better, and Root pulls out and steps back with a triumphant smile.

“Good,” she says, and they go again. Soon, Root is twisting against underhand, overhand, cross-grip, double-handed, and two simultaneous single-handed grabs with ease. Her thumbs get sore, and Root’s wrists grow red and raw, but the technique is there, and if Root’s growing confidence and quick counterattacks following successful releases are any indication, Root knows it.

“Okay, choking,” she says after a few more rounds. Root rubs her sore wrists, but she’s still smiling. “A front choke with your back free is easy. Cross over, step back, and pick up a suitcase of gold,” she says with a cryptic smile.

Root raises an eyebrow. “Come again?”

She gestures for Root to choke her, and, with minimal smiling, Root does. She throws her hand over Root’s arms, “Cross over – “, takes a step back with the opposite foot, “Step back – ”, and reaches to the floor, pulling Root with her as she goes with both arms trapped under hers. Root stumbles. “Now pick up a suitcase of gold.” She closes her hand over an imaginary handle, quickly snaps her elbow back as she ‘picks it up,’ and stops her elbow inches from Root’s face as the momentum carries her right into the strike. Root’s eyes widen, and Shaw tilts her head in mock unhappiness. “Ah, damn, suitcase was empty.”

“Hilarious,” Root says with a fond smile as she steps back.

Shaw smirks. Grice actually showed her that one from his high school days as a Tae Kwon Do instructor. She accidentally broke his nose copying him.

“If your back’s against a wall, you have to break the choke at the elbows,” she continues, beckoning Root to follow. She leans against the wall and waits for Root to choke her. Root bites back a comment, and thankfully, complies.

 “Grab your attacker’s wrists, pull down to bend their elbows, and kick to the groin. Pretty straightforward.” She pulls, but Root’s resistance is less than she expects, and Root’s elbows bend with such surprising ease they hit her chest and Root stumbles forward with the unexpected momentum. Their bodies collide with a soft ‘oomph’ – from her or Root, she can’t be sure – and Shaw freezes.

Root’s eyebrows, already high in surprise, quirk playfully. “Up against a wall, mmh?”

The promised knee to the groin follows like a physiological reflex.

“Or not,” Root groans.

Shaw steps away. Root eyes her with a knowing smile, and Shaw suppresses the urge to either adjust her shirt – because it’s fine, seriously (also, what the hell?) – or throw another punch (much more her style).

Instead, she clears her throat and steps back woodenly on the mats. “A chokehold from behind or the side is the hardest to get out of.” She opens her mouth to command Root to choke her again, but Root’s eyes sparkle with mirth at her continued austerity, and she snaps her mouth shut. On second thought…

“Turn around,” she commands as Root saunters closer.

“Why?”

“Swim or drown,” she retorts.

“Mmm,” Root hums, stepping closer and turning her back. She looks over her shoulder and winks. “I’m more of a hands-on type of girl anyway.”

Shaw twitches her lips in irritation, but keeps quiet. She takes in Root’s back, briefly calculating the best way to demonstrate the choke and release without choking Root out.

“Should I find a box for you to stand on?” Root says after a moment, looking over her shoulder again and grinning wickedly.

She purses her lips. “Pissing me off when I’m about to choke you – not your best idea.”

“Just trying to be considerate. You’re so much more… fun-sized without heels.”

Instantly, Shaw slaps her hands on Root’s shoulders, jams her heel into the back of her knee, pulls, and closes a sleeper hold over Root’s throat. Her words are hissed by Root’s ear.

“You were saying?”

Root turns just a fraction of an inch to Shaw’s face, eyes glinting. “Still within my definition of fun.”

Shaw narrows her eyes at the hoarseness of her voice – too much to be genuine, and sounding instead like even more flirtation – and tightens the choke. “I doubt you’ll enjoy passing out.”

Root’s hands shoot up and her nails dig into her arm, but her smile and the eye contact never falter. “Oh, I’m sure whatever you do to me, I’ll thoroughly enjoy.”

Her lips turn up with a smile despite her resolve for seriousness. Even so physically close, it’s much easier allowing the flirtation when Root is at her mercy like this. Twenty seconds with minimal pressure and problem solved. She can’t help but smirk at the thought. The taller woman suppresses a cough and closes her eyes when she tightens her arm.

“What do you do?” she prompts.

Root pulls at her arm, and she shakes her head.

“Won’t work, you’re locked in.”

Root kicks back at her feet. She avoids the blow, but nods in approval.

“Good start. Use your hips.”

Root cants her hips back and bends forward, pulling her off her feet.

“Want to throw me over your shoulder?” She snorts and holds on. “Good luck with that.”

“You’re tiny,” Root grunts. “It could work.”

“Not that tiny,” she snaps back, landing on her feet again. “Shift your hips sideways, it opens me up as a target.”

Root does, and her elbow slams in her ribs hard enough to leave a bruise.

“Ow,” she grunts – and backtracks instantly. “I mean – good.”

Root smirks.

“You’ve got the space. Elbow to the ribs, yes. Heel on the instep. And punch to the jewels, bring him down.”

“I love how you just assume all my attackers will be male.” She smirks. “Besides you, I mean.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ll probably just try to flirt your way out of a chokehold for the female ones, anyway.”

Root catches her eyes. “Is it working?”

Shaw pulls her closer, her voice low and challenging. “You. Wish.”

Instantly, Root shifts her hips sideways, kicks back, and slams her elbow into the same spot again – pressure point perfection. She hisses in pain and stumbles back.

“Ow?” Root asks with a smile as she turns.

She side-eyes her sullenly. “Good.” She straightens, gently brushing the pain from her ribs. “These are the easiest ways to get out of headlocks and grabs, but there are others. Do what feels natural, just know you have this to fall back on if you’re in a tight spot.”

“Sounds good.”

They practice the locks and chokeholds. No matter how hard she tightens the choke, Root’s smile never falters. If anything, it widens – and gets under her skin like crazy. She gives up after three different effectively countered chokes, and rolls her eyes.

Whatever.

A few minutes later, there is a red streak and a row of fingerprints across Root’s neck, and Shaw’s nose is sore (they nearly had a repeat of Grice’s suitcase-of-gold debacle). She shakes loose the ache in her arm – brachial plexus strikes seem to be Root’s favorite.

“Let’s step it up. Real fight – loose sparring. Use other moves, if you’ve got them. Anything is fair game. I’ll make it harder. And I’ll grab you whenever I can.”

Root lifts her gloved hands. “I’m looking forward to it.”

She attacks without preamble, jumping forward with a punch that Root blocks. Instead, she clamps her free hand over Root’s wrist again and pulls her close. Root only falters for a second of surprise before her face breaks with a smile and Shaw braces for the flirtatious comment – but it doesn’t come. Instead, her arm whips out of the grab with surprising speed.

“Don’t think it’ll be that easy, do you?” Root says with a smile as she hops back on the mats, bringing up her hands in loose fists and eyeing Shaw like a challenge. “Come and get me.”

Oh, she will.

A sidekick that Root dodges is her answer. The next is her hand shooting out to her throat. Root tries the suitcase-of-gold counterattack, but she slips out of it and slaps her arm around Root’s throat from behind again.  Root’s elbow to the side is instant – as expected – and she dodges and jumps back before it can do even more damage.

It’s a lot to combine: punches, pressure points, releases, blocks, but Root is far from helpless. She hadn’t expected her to be – she did overpower even her, after all, albeit via direct current, not direct combat – but she really isn’t half bad. Though her tactics stray as far from any kind of self-defense manual as can be, the sore points and future bruises slowly sprouting up all along Shaw’s body attest to the fact some are undeniably effective. She chews over the soreness in her jaw where Root’s elbow caught her by surprise as the woman took an unconventional approach to getting out of a side headlock. There’s still a dent in the mat from Root’s heel where Shaw was just able to dodge a stomp to her instep that forced her to release Root’s wrists and regroup. Her solar plexus aches from a knee strike when Root threw her arms wide after getting out of a double-handed grab. Root isn't particularly strong and only marginally fast, but she's shrewd, looking for weaknesses and evening the playing field with the element of surprise. Combined with effective hand-to-hand combat instructions, Shaw sees the potential for lethality.

“Good,” she says with something between a smile and a grimace after Root steps around an attack and takes advantage of her unprotected side with a quick kick.

Root hops back, smiling – taunting. “Should’ve made that safe word after all, huh?”

She suppresses the eye-roll, bringing her fists higher in front of her face as she hones in on Root. “You're anticipating my next move. Keep watching closely.”

 “My pleasure.”

Again, she subdues the eye-roll, continuing to circle. “Most people only have a few go-to moves. They get predictable. You can anticipate that and be a step ahead. ” She throws a left-handed punch – her go-to move before the brachial ache – and Root easily blocks and throws a counter-punch. “Like that, yes, good.”

Root cocks her head. “Maybe I just know you too well.”

The eye-roll will no longer be suppressed, and she loses sight of Root for the briefest second.

Apparently, it’s long enough, because Root exploits the opening with a punch to her jaw that brings her focus right back to where it should have been – on Root’s fists, not her words.

She takes a shocked step back, rubbing her jaw. “Did you just...?”

Roots triumphant smile is answer enough, and she hops away with a new spring in her step. “I don't just hack computers, you know.” The glint in her eye is a challenge. “And your code has become so predictable, Sameen.”

She smiles at the taunt. “Say that again.” She jumps forward and attacks. Root sidesteps like she knew it was coming and counterattacks instantly. Shaw flees, hand on her ribs and a groan in her throat – at the ache, but mostly at realizing she's just been baited. Again.

Root’s smile grows impossibly wider. “See? I could hack you in my sleep.”

“I'd like to see you try.” She jumps forward with a kick. Root blocks it and follows up with a jab to her solar plexus before she hops out of range.

“Name the night. Though with you around, I'd rather do anything but sleep.”

Shaw throws a quick, meaningful jab at Root’s jaw. Root presses her fingers against the ache, but doesn’t break eye contact.

“Shall I knock you out to help it along?” she taunts, flexing her fists pointedly.

Root’s smile is insufferably flirtatious. “As long as you promise to play doctor after.”

She throws another punch, and Root blocks and hops out of range. “I do like a little blood…” Shaw says, following after.

“Well, your place or mine?”

She rolls her eyes again, but this time, she’s prepared for Root’s self-satisfied smirk and fast punch – she’s not the only one who can anticipate moves – and she ducks under Root’s arm, hugs her close, sweeps her leg hard at her ankles, and takes her down. Root falls with a cry of surprise and a loud smack to the mats, and Shaw lands squarely on top of her with her knees on either side of her body.

Root breathes out fast, eyes wide. Then her face breaks out in an idiotic smile. “Or right here is fine.”

She rolls her eyes, and for once Root doesn’t answer it with a punch. She gets up with a smile, offering Root her hand.

Root takes it and gets to her feet. “You know, if you wanted to get me on my back, all you had to do was ask.”

She shakes her head, exasperated, but amused. “I’ll keep it in mind.” She looks Root up and down, satisfied. “That was good, not just finding an opening, but making one. I think we found your strength. Anticipation. Manipulation. Provocation.”

“Learning people’s algorithms.”

She nods. “Exactly. And using it against them. You took advantage of my weakness.”

Root’s eyebrow shoots up playfully. “You mean me?”

She purses her lips. “No.”

“I got to you.”

“You got me irritated.”

“Which left you unprotected.”

She grunts noncommittally, ignoring Root’s no doubt horribly arrogant smile. Root sidles a step closer and lightly runs her fingers across her jaw where her first punch connected. 

“I doubt it will bruise.”

Shaw pulls back, somewhat disconcerted, and brushes her own fingers over her jaw as Root steps back and takes a drink of water. She shakes it off.

“Fighting like that is no use if you get knocked off your feet,” she says. “There's ground fighting, sure, but it puts you at a disadvantage. You have to stay on your feet.”

“Will you teach me?”

“It’s really not that hard. Takedowns are based on grabs of the upper body and sweeps or hip chucking of the lower body. Get out of the grab before you can be thrown over the fulcrum, and you stay up.” She steps closer, grabbing Root’s upper arms. “Try it.”

She pulls Root hard towards her, sweeping out her leg as she goes, and though Root pulls away, it’s not nearly enough, and she lands hard on the mat with Shaw across her.

“Again.”

She pulls her to her feet, and instantly pulls her in close, this time by her shoulders. Their foreheads nearly knock together, and Root’s eyes widen in surprise, but then Shaw twists, sweeps, and knocks her down again. Her hand slaps the mat hard as she lands inches above her.

“Again.”

She tries different combinations of grabs, sweeps and hip chucks, keeping Root on her toes. But time and time again, Root’s resistance is inadequate, and she smacks hard to the mat with Shaw's body full across her. In side control. Straddling her. In half mount. With a knee pressed to her stomach. Any number of ground grapples. But no matter the clear control Shaw continues to exert, Root’s resistance is never enough to keep her from getting it.

When she lands on top of her for the umpteenth time, she can’t hold back the long-suffering sigh of irritation. “Are you messing up on purpose?” she demands from between Root’s legs.

Root presses her lips together to subdue the smirk. “Now why would I do a thing like that?”

“Root, be serious. Getting knocked to the ground is dangerous, especially if you’re up against more than one enemy.”

“Isn’t it better to learn how to get back on my feet? Get back up when I get knocked down?” Root jokes.

“Fine.” She slides forward between Root’s legs, pressing her hips down and placing two hands on either side of her. “Do you want to learn ground fighting?”

Root takes in a breath of surprise at the shift and her sudden closeness, and her eyes sparkle encouragingly. “Something like that.”

She clenches her jaw. “Root…”

Root composes her features. “I mean, yes. Yes, I do.”

“Fine. I’m already in position anyway,” she grumbles, placing her hands higher. She’s in Root’s guard – between her legs, hovering over her – which is not at all a bad place to be.

From a fighting standpoint.

Clearly.

By Root’s pleased, eager expression, it looks like Root feels exactly the same, though she doesn’t doubt it’s for a completely different reason. 

She ignores it. “This is called guard position.” She throws a few off-center punches at Root’s face, which land on the mat. “Ground and pound position.”

Root’s eyebrows shoot up, and Shaw rolls her eyes. This woman can make anything sexual…

“It can be very dangerous because if I choke you,” she continues, unfazed, “I can apply a lot of pressure with my bodyweight and crush your trachea.” She grips Root’s throat and lifts up on her knees to demonstrate, making sure to keep the pressure light. “If you’re ever in my position, use that to your advantage, especially if you’re going for a kill.”

Root nods, and she lets go.

She falls back on her palms on either side of Root’s body. “Alright, so, I’m on you. What do you do?”

Root smirks. “Enjoy it?”

She lets out another long-suffering sigh. Honestly… “Okay, a Samaritan agent is on you.” She feints a punch, landing hard on the mat by Root’s ear. “What do you do?”

“Protect my head?”

“Good, how?”

She’s expecting Root to simply shield her face, but to her surprise, she wraps her arms around her torso and ducks her face against her side by her arm.

“Good yes. Most people just shield their head. Like this, he can’t hit you.” She attempts a punch, but Root is too close and the angle is awful. “And you’re in a position to bite and seriously wear him down. Also, if he tries to pull off you, he’ll pull you with him, and he still can’t get a punch in.” She pulls back, and Root simply hangs on, arms tight around her and face pressed to her ribs. “So. Hug and bite.”

Root lets go and lies back on the mat. “As much fun as that sounds with you, I can think of a less appealing possibility where that’s probably not the best option. I doubt I’ll run into that kind of trouble, but – ”

“Yes,” Shaw interrupts sharply. She’s not sure why the thought of Root being shot at, hit, or hurt only makes her worried – about the mission, clearly – but beyond that…

Her fingers tighten like a vice on Root’s upper arm.

“Shaw, there’s steam coming out of your ears,” Root prompts with a light smile, and Shaw loosens her hand and clears her throat self-consciously.

“Right. Uhm.” She pushes the thought away – quickly. “You’d want to be able to get out of this in any situation anyway, just protecting yourself isn’t enough if you’re in a clinch. First thing, instead of pulling close, you push up. Palms to my shoulders, lock your elbows, and hold.” Root complies, still smiling lightly as her fingers slide up her biceps to her shoulders. “Like this, I can’t do anything.” She lifts up off her knees, pressing down on Root’s hands. “I can put my entire weight on your hands, try to push down on you, and I can’t. You’re still the one in control.” She moves to the side to demonstrate, and Root easily follows and keeps her lifted up at arm’s length.

“Maybe just because you’re so tiny,” Root teases.

Shaw raises an eyebrow in challenge, and instantly slides her hands between Root’s arm, breaking the lock and pinning Root’s body and wrists back to the mat with a dull thud that knocks the wind out of them both.

“You were saying?” she says with a smile as Root’s eyes widen in surprise.

“So much for control,” Root points out with a grumble that doesn’t reach her eyes – she’s smiling too widely for that.

“You need to lock your elbows better.” She straightens Root’s elbows and rotates them against her shoulders. “Ninety degree angle to our bodies, so I’d need to go over to get to you.” She tries to slide through the lock again, but this time, it holds, and Root’s smile grows.

“Okay. What next?”

“Hold the lock, but not too long, because you can’t defend your head like this. Quickly, slide your hips right, put your left foot on my hip, extend, and kick off.”

Root follows her instructions, shrimping out from under her and kicking off efficiently.

“Good! But don’t go anywhere yet,” she says with a smile when Root tries to slide away. She grabs her hips and repositions her back beneath her. The inside of Root’s thighs press to her hips. “As you slide out, kick. Groin, solar plexus, then triple on the chin.” She grins. “KO as you go.”

“Sounds like your type of exit.”

“Damn right.”

Root does as she’s told, shrimping out from the guard position and kicking up (lightly) as she escapes. Shaw takes the ones to the groin and gut, but dodges the chin kicks.

“Good. I’m going to try to hold on to you now, throw a few punches. Do it again.”

Root slides back under her, and Shaw presses down with her hips to hold her in place. Root smiles eagerly. Shaw rolls her eyes and throws a punch. Root dodges, and it lands on the mat. Instantly, Root shoots forward under her extended arm and pulls her close, wrapping her legs around her waist as she goes. Shaw pulls back, but Root holds on tight, feet locked tight behind her hips and arms in a strong bear hug. She tries to throw a punch, but true to instructions, the angle is impossible. She tries an elbow strike instead, digging into Root’s trapezius, but though she hisses in pain, she pulls up her shoulders and holds on.

Shaw’s core muscles ache, and she falls on her palms on the mat with a tired groan. Holding up both Root’s and her own weight while Root holds on like a monkey is not exactly sustainable. She struggles against Root’s grip, slipping her hands between their bodies to create space, but Root just pulls her closer. She sits up on one heel, throwing Root’s weight sideways, but it’s not enough, and soon enough she’s panting and shaking from exertion and she falls back on the mat on top of Root.

She’s sure if she could see her face, Root would be smirking.

She lifts up on her elbows, still breathing hard, Root’s body pressed beneath her, and waits for Root’s escape.

It doesn’t come.

“Any time now, Root,” she grunts between labored breaths after a minute.

A beat. “How did it go again?”

She can hear the smile in her voice, and Root tightens her arms and tilts her hips up against her own in a way that’s anything but professional.

“Root.”

With a subtle grumble, Root lets go, falling back on the mat beneath her. Shaw throws a punch instantly, but Root dodges it and shoots her arms up against her biceps, keeping her at arm’s length. She tries to pass it, but the lock is good and she’s winded, so she throws a punch instead. It lands, and Root closes her eyes in pain.

“Keep your eyes on me, Root,” Shaw commands sharply, and Root’s eyes snap open. She pushes down hard, pressing her whole weight on Root’s extended arms. “Get out of it.”

Root nods seriously and kicks up her leg, pushing off her hips and sliding away. The kick to her solar plexus throws her back, clutching her stomach and groaning and making the follow-up chin kicks utterly unnecessary.

“Good,” she groans, getting up on her knees as Root does the same. Root cringes as Shaw massages her stomach, pushing back the nausea from the kick.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Kick like that and your attacker might even puke all over himself.”

“Fascinating.”

“Effective,” she corrects with a smile. “Okay, another position. On your back.”

Root shuffles closer and settles back languidly on the mat, looking up at her meaningfully. “Told you all you have to do is ask…”

She rolls her eyes, and slides back between Root’s legs. Then she lifts a knee and hooks it over Root’s hip so one knee is on the mat by her hip and the other remains in the space between her legs.

“This is a half guard position.”

Root smiles slyly. “It’s familiar.”

“What?”

“Different woman.” Root grins. “Slightly different situation.”

She guffaws in disbelief before she can stop herself and shifts back instantly, relieving the pressure Root provides as she subtly pushes her hips up in a small circle.

Seriously?

She quickly brings her other knee above Root’s hip as well, pinning her hips back to the mat and pushing the innuendo away. She clears her throat. “Never mind. You’ll probably never encounter the half guard.”

“Not while fighting, anyway,” Root teases, looking wholly pleased with herself.

She narrows her eyes and throws a quick punch. Root catches it two-handed and dodges, still grinning. “If you’re in this position – full mount, it’s called – chances are you’re going to be getting punched like hell,” she continues, throwing another punch that Root ducks out from under. “You need to trap an arm and flip your opponent.” She throws another punch.

Root dodges. “How can I do that when someone is punching me?”

“Use that. Hand control. Grab my punch.” She punches slowly, and Root grabs her wrist. “Good. Now keep my arm against your body, don’t let me use it to prop myself up.” Root complies, pulling her elbow against her sternum. “Then trap my leg with yours so I can’t use it as a post. Like – yes, like that.” Root hooks her ankle with her foot, pulling her lower leg to their centerline. “Now you’ve got my whole right side defenseless – I can’t push back or keep you from flipping me, see?”

“Yes,” Root says as Shaw struggles, trying to release her arm from Root’s grapple and her ankle from the hook. “What now?”

“Thrust your hips up and to the right, and roll on top of me.”

Root smirks, and Shaw sees her instantly lose focus. With minimal effort, Shaw pulls out of the grapple and releases the leg hook. Her fist snaps meaningfully – though not excessively hard – against Root’s jaw.

“Focus,” she snaps with another punch. Root cringes, but keeps her eyes open and dodges the next. “Or you’ll just get more bruises.”

Root nods and catches her next punch, pulls it against her body, and traps her leg in a smooth movement. Shaw struggles, but Root holds on, and when Shaw aims a punch with her free hand, Root thrusts her hips up – hard – and rolls her over. She lands with a loud ‘oomph’ on top of her, hips between her legs and Shaw’s arm still trapped against her torso.

“Good!” Shaw says with a grin.

Root breaks out laughing. Shaw freezes and raises an eyebrow, but besides the full body contact Root no doubt highly appreciates, there isn’t anything amusing.

“Root, be serious,” she admonishes.

“Honestly, I’m trying but – ”

“But what?” she snaps.

Root’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “But I didn’t realize second base would be part of the deal today.”

Shaw looks down in confusion. Her fist had loosened and shifted in the struggle, and instead of a fist pressed to her shoulder, Root received a hand pressed… well…

She pulls it back sharply and clears her throat. “Sorry.”

Root’s flirtatious smile makes her wonder if she even needs to be.

Root’s pressure all along her body suddenly feels about ten degrees warmer.

She quickly shoves up and shrimps out from under her. Root smiles knowingly, but doesn’t comment.

She hops to her feet. “We’ll practice more ground work in a minute,” she says tightly, flicking her hair from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear.

“Getting a bit too much for you, mmh?” Root teases as she gets up.

 She ignores it. “We’ll go again when you learn how to actually knock someone down. Maybe it’ll help you stay on your feet too,” she adds pointedly, and Root has the decency to look somewhat abashed.

“As I said, takedowns depend on creating fulcrums. The easiest are sweeps or hip tosses.” She steps closer and grabs Root’s upper arm and opposite shoulder. “Hold.” She steps back, forcing Root to take a step forward, which she taps inward with her foot. “Sweep.” She pulls sideways, but not far enough to knock Root down. “Pull.”

Root stays on her feet, watching closely. “Easy as that?”

She smiles. “A little different when your opponent resists, but yes. Try it.” They switch places, Root taking hold of her shoulder and opposite arm. She steps back tentatively, sweeps her foot, and pulls left. Shaw stays on her feet with only minimal stumbling.

“Come on, now,” she says with a challenging smirk. “You can do better than that.”

Root tries again. With a mutual satisfied smile, Root slams her to the mats. Unfortunately, she holds on to her as she falls, and gets pulled down on top of her. Root laughs, and Shaw feels the sound throughout her body.

“Sorry!” Root slides off of her.

She gets up. “Don’t worry. In this case, it’s not what you want, but ending up on top of your opponent is never a bad thing.”

“Especially when they look like you,” Root says with a wink.

She sighs in aggravation. She should really know what to expect by now.

“I’ll show you a takedown where you do end up like that.”

“Already looking forward to it.”

“It’s a basic hip toss.” She steps closer, sliding one arm over and the other under Root’s arms, and holding her in a close hug. When she dares to glance up, she sees Root look down at her fondly. She rolls her eyes. “Pull close.” She takes two steps into Root’s space. “Position your hips as far to the other side as possible.” She thrusts her hips up, lifting Root off her feet. “And toss.” She flips her over her shoulder. Root looks up at her from the mats with a smile.

“That’s kind of… fun.”

“You would think that,” Shaw grumbles back, and pulls her to her feet. “Your turn.”

“My pleasure,” Root purrs, and pulls her close, and tries the toss.

It’s not nearly as easy as it looks, Shaw knows that, and Root’s eyebrows are scrunched in concentration. She corrects where she can, moving Root’s hips into the right position, tapping her foot to alter her stance, giving counter pressure to maximize the fulcrum, but every time Root tries, there’s always something that goes wrong. Her hip chuck hits wrong, or Shaw slides out of her grip, or she never makes it over her hip.

A few tries later, Root is visibly irritated, and her attempts turn twitchy and unfocused.

“Stop, stop,” Shaw says after a moment, frowning.

Root huffs in irritation, but lets go. “I can’t get it.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. It’s tough, but you’ll get it.”

Root purses her lips in irritation. It’s an unexpectedly amusing sight.

“Come on, think of it like…” She pauses, thinking. “…like I’m injured and you’re trying to carry me somewhere across your back.” Root looks at her in surprise. “You have to lift me off my feet to get away, or leave me behind.”

Root’s irritation eases, and she smiles. “I’d never do that.”

Shaw subdues the reciprocal smile at Root’s instant answer, and simply shrugs. “Then it’s up to you to save us both.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yes. But a bit unlikely, since I’m the one that usually saves your ass.”

Root tilts her head playfully. “After today, you won’t have to.”

Shaw steps closer, bringing her arms around Root’s torso. “So. It’s like an altered fire-man’s carry, followed by a throw.” She steps in and lifts, so (despite the height difference) Root’s hips are lifted off the ground and her toes skim the mat. Root’s torso is diagonally across her back. She holds and turns her face to Root’s slightly reddening upside-down one. “First lift, then flip.” She continues the movement, slowly, and Root slams to the mat. “Got it?”

“I’ll try,” Root says, getting up.

“You can do it.” She purses her lips in amusement. “As you said, I’m tiny.”

Root smiles gratefully, and crouches to fighting stance. Shaw does the same. Slowly, Root steps in, pulls her close, twists her hips, and lifts her. She hangs on for a second, but then slides off.

“Step in further,” she commands. “Try again.”

She does. This time she hangs on, perfectly balanced diagonally across Root’s back and shoulders.

“Good! You could take a step, now, carry me, if you needed to.”

“Save you for once,” Root returns with a smile.

Shaw snorts. “As if.”

Instantly, Root thrusts her hips and throws her over her shoulder. Unfortunately, similar to the sweep, she holds on a little too enthusiastically, and lands on top of her again.

She can’t help but smile when Root laughs at herself again.

“Almost…” Shaw murmurs playfully.

“Almost.”

She raises a mock suspicious eyebrow. “Unless you’re doing it on purpose.”

Root laughs. “This time, I’m not.”

“This time?”

Root just smiles cryptically, and stands. She offers her hand and Shaw gets to her feet.

“You’ve got the technique. Buy a dummy, throw him around or something,” she jokes. “Just let go of him before he hits the mats.”

“Yes, far less satisfying when it’s not you I land on,” Root returns.

Shaw smiles and looks Root up and down, thinking. “Pressure points, blocks, releases, throws, ground fighting… I think those are the essentials.” Root nods happily. “Are you ready to combine it all in a real fight?”

Root’s eyebrows shoot up and she bites her lip. “Maybe?”

Shaw shakes her head and steps closer, flexing her fingers and smirking. “I asked: Are. You. Ready?”

Root looks down at her in surprise, but slowly her lips turn up in an equally eager smile and her eyes sparkle with delight. She simply nods in reply, and as one they step back, raise their hands, and begin to circle.

This is it. This is what they’ve been building up to. She knows who will win – the attacks and parries are more natural to her than walking, and a day of basics will never trump years of training – but it’s the level of resistance from Root that she wants to see. Not how she fights, but how hard. Experience will come, sadly, from taking punches and fighting for her life. But she needs to see that Root can, and will. That she’ll apply the basics and survive. Because losing her out there is not an option.

For the mission.

Clearly.

She prowls around her, but Root prowls right back, eyes glinting in anticipation. She shuffles a step closer, throwing out a series of short, testing jabs that land on Root’s gloves. Root backs away only slightly, holding her ground and watching closely.

She looks ready.

Let’s see if she is…

Shaw throws a fast punch forward, but Root is equally fast, and slaps the ridge of her hand down on a pressure point and follows up with a quick jab to her shoulder. Shaw flexes her fingers and shakes the dead feeling from her arm. Her hand continues to tingle, and she shifts to her other. Root notices, and turns the injured side of her face and body forward again.

Shaw smirks. Clever girl, appealing to the remnants of her Hippocratic oath…

She kicks instead. Root blocks, but inefficiently, and leaves her face unprotected. Shaw lunges forward, pressing her thumbs into Root’s throat. She coughs and retreats, but Shaw holds on, and the shock in Root’s eyes quickly fades to focus. She pulls her elbows down and swings up her knee. Shaw steps back as it lands, satisfied by the defense, but Root isn’t done. She grabs Shaw’s retreating hands, pulls her close, digs her fingers into her shoulder, and follows up with three more fast knee strikes to her ribs and solar plexus that send ripples of pain through her body and leaves Shaw reeling backward when she finally escapes the hold.

It’s a heck of an attack, and she’s as impressed as she in pain. It’s definitely a new feeling.

Root smirks like she knows it, and doesn’t give her a moment’s rest. She lunges forward with a basic left-right-left – too slowly. Though her gut twists in trepidation – Root is fast, and this is not fast – Shaw’s body reacts instinctively, and she grabs both Root’s wrist in a tight underhand grapple. Root smirks, and Shaw knows she’s been baited even before Root throws her hands wide, pulls out of the grab, and slams an extended knuckle strike into her cough point.

The reaction is instant, visceral, and she staggers back, coughing and gasping for air. Root doesn’t relent, and advances with a victorious smile and another series of punches. She gasps for air, but dodges. She coughs, but parries. She swallows hard and ignores the pain, but blocks – hard, and sure to hit an advanced pressure point on Root’s wrist as she does.

Hitting the cough point – definite grey area in ‘friendly’ hand-to-hand.

Well, two can play that game.

Shaw catches Root’s next punch, twists, and pulls her into the Swan Song Set again.

Root hisses in pain, and bends back against her, neck exposed and very tempting for a choke. She resists.

“Can I expect a full-strength knifehand to my carotid next, Root?” she murmurs, low and dangerous.

Root’s grimace flashes to a challenging smile. “Too much for you to handle, Sameen?”

Her first name is a taunt, and Shaw tightens the lock until Root lurches to the ground with a subdued cry of pain. She releases, and though her training screams at her to follow up with a punishing kick or punch (execute, Agent Shaw), Root looks up at her with a simultaneously grateful and defiant grin, and she urge fades. She steps back, and Root gets to her feet.

Root fights hard, fast. Not her punches, per se, but the glint in her eye, the choice of attacks, the utter lack of hesitation in her movements, and the speed in her advances makes it clear she’s not screwing around.

Shaw smiles again, and attacks.

This time Root steps outside the punch and slices her hand at her ulnar nerve. She sees it coming, and pulls back, making Root land on the bony point of her elbow instead, but though she hisses in pain, Root still follows up with a hard punch to her ribs. Shaw parries the next, and the next, and the next, until Root’s quick punches have her backing up too far for comfort. She throws up a knee and Root sags back, clutching her stomach, and Shaw gratefully takes back the space she lost. Root looks up challengingly from under her lashes, and Shaw’s stomach jumps.

She wonders if Root let on less about her fighting skills than she thought, because she’s pretty fucking good. Not great. But definitely green to blue belt range in basic Korean martial arts. She relies heavily on punches, especially her right, and on the newly learned essentials, but her ability to combine attacks, weave together a defense and a counterattack, and her impeccable speed makes Shaw wonder how long she’s been fighting alone. Learning her own moves, doing what comes naturally, but building up muscle memory and muscle strength as she went. Perhaps unknowingly, even.

Still. If her smirk is any indication, Shaw thinks Root knows it now.

It keeps her on her toes. She’s never in danger of losing. In danger of nerve damage perhaps, when Root lands another ruthless strike to her left medial nerve. In danger of puking maybe, when another knee strike hits her solar plexus. But never in danger of losing. She backs off, allows Root to regroup, and attacks again, testing her weaknesses and anticipating her strengths, and training both in the process. It’s a push-and-pull game, and Root’s unwavering smile is the best indicator that she’s not the only one enjoying it.

The fight continues. She gets baited into putting Root in an unexpected rear chokehold again and the ache in her ribs lingers persistently as a punishment. She lands a few good kicks to Root’s left, and curses the sly advantage Root has when she begins actively protecting her good side. They hop back and forth, sometimes slipping off the mat completely and working each other into the cramped corners of her small apartment. Root presses her back against a wall with a combined blood and air chokehold she never taught her (one hand on her throat, the other pressing closed her carotid) that she has to hit hard to escape. She returns the favor with her lower arm barred against her trachea while her free hand clamps Root’s right against the wall, limiting her escape options. Root goes for the low shot, and she retreats resisting the urge to cradle her foot like an idiot.

The fight is good. The fight is long – which in itself is the best indicator of Root’s ability to fight hard. Every pressure point she activates, every punch she lands, every grab she escapes – Shaw’s proud grin grows. She can’t take full credit, she knows, but Root isn’t shy about taking advantage of her tips. Even the suitcase-of-gold gets some use (though she luckily dodges the nose strike). She recognizes her words and her instructions in every other attack Root throws at her, and it’s unbelievably satisfying. If Root is anything like this in the field when the Machine calls her for duty… Well, the mission won’t be in danger again.

After a while, her arm begins to sag. Her foot still aches, and she favors her left. Root shakes the slouch from her shoulders and scrunches her eyes to focus her vision, and Shaw knows they’re both running out of stamina. It’s enough. She’s seen what she’s wanted to.

When it comes to upright fighting, at least…

With a pronounced smile, she steps in, grabs hold of Root’s arms, and sweeps her foot at Root’s legs. Takedowns are Root’s Achilles heel – Shaw took her down and landed on top of her plenty of times to prove that – but to her utter amazement, Root hops over the sweep and swipes out of the grapple with ease. Shaw barks a laugh as she realizes what Root was doing on purpose before, and Root smirks knowingly as she hops back. A bit of flirting, a bit of fighting. She prefers the second, clearly. She’ll accept that Root would pick the first.

Root smiles at her like she can read her thoughts, and with a wink, lunges forward and wraps her in a bear hug. Shaw’s heart jumps in surprise. She’d hoped Root would dare to use the hip toss, despite the initial difficulty. She pulls hard on Root’s arm, trying to dislodge her, but Root holds on to her. She twists her hips, steps through, and with a flowing movement that nearly closes off her throat in pride, throws her over her back. She hits the mat with a hard smack, followed by the simultaneous – and this time, fully intentional – smack of Root’s knees on either side of her body and her wrists pinned against her sternum. Shaw could get out of it, but for once, she doesn’t want to, because Root’s expression is so utterly triumphant, her heart swells with pride.

She returns the smile and nods in approval. A perfect hip toss. “About time.”

Root’s smile widens as she pushes down on her wrists, and she licks her lips subtly. “My thoughts exactly.”

Shaw narrows her eyes suspiciously at Root’s flirtatious tone. Perhaps Root has her looking for double meaning that isn’t there but…

She slips out of Root’s grapple, grabs Root’s arm, hooks her leg, and flips them over.

Root’s smile never falters, and she looks up at her through her lashes. “Even better.”

Shaw pushes her hips between Root’s legs and throws a punch at her face. Root blocks, despite the position, daring to combine blocks from sparring with ground defenses. The next punch gets knocked aside with equal ease, and Shaw smirks proudly.

She shoots her hands down and clamps Root’s throat in a choke. Root’s breath hitches and something excited, alive, flashes in her eyes. She hooks her legs firmly behind Shaw’s back, and something tightens low and urgent and reluctant inside her in response and has her tightening her hand in an instant. Root’s breath hitches, cutting off the light groan Shaw felt vibrating against her palm. They still, for the briefest moment, taking in the mutual victorious, eager grins, and watching for the other’s next move, the air crackling between them and neither daring - or able - to breathe. She waits for Root to tighten her legs, subtly cant up her hips, or reinforce the choke to something a little more dangerous. And honestly - with the heat between them along every place they touch spiking her heartbeat and leaving her mouth dry with anticipation - Shaw thinks that she just might let her.

But then, to her surprise, Root thrusts her hips up, breaks the choke at the elbows, and knocks Shaw’s hands away.

The moment is gone in an instant, and Shaw’s eyes widen in surprise and professional admiration at the combination of the hip thrust and the choke release, and she forgets the rapid beating of her heart and the bead of sweat that had been tracing down the curve of Root's neck - as well as forgetting to throw a follow-up punch. 

Root takes advantage and quickly shrimps out from under her, and instead of a kick to her solar plexus or chin, she sends a double kick to both her shoulders and knocks her back. Shaw scrambles to sit up, but Root is too fast, and quickly straddles her. She punches up. Root blocks. Another punch. Root dodges, and returns one of her own that connects hard with the mat when she ducks away. Shaw catches the next punch, pulls it against her, and rolls them over again.

This time, as soon as she lands, she slams both of Root’s wrists on the mats with a resounding finality.

Root looks up at her, breathing heavily, and Shaw sags down, her face inches from Root’s equally sweaty one, panting. Their having breaths mingle in the by now damp room, leaving moisture on their skin and beads of sweat along their necks, and the silence stretches and pulls until finally Shaw opens her eyes and takes in Root’s pleased grin with a mirrored, slowly growing smile.

“So, was that good for you too?” Root murmurs, still breathing hard and looking up at her like she only comes alive in the heat of the moment of a fight or… something else.

It’s a feeling Shaw recognizes fully, and her laugh is utterly genuine.

“Sure, Root. Yeah,” she murmurs, still smiling, and slowly lets go of her wrists. Root’s lips twitch with a slight pout, but her smile never fades, and she sits up as Shaw slides off of her.

“Looks like you might not need my medical expertise as much in the future,” Shaw points out, gingerly getting to her feet.

Root cocks her head, looking up at her. “Is that disappointment I hear?”

She purses her lips in amusement. Not quite. But… also not ‘no’.  “I’ll keep my Friday nights free anyway,” she says instead.

Root’s face breaks into a smile of surprise.

 “Come on.” She extends her hand. “Let’s take out the stitches.”

Root hesitates, and her face falls.

“Already?”

She tilts her head regretfully. “It’s getting late, and you’re more than basically protected now.”

Root lets herself get pulled to her feet, and follows as Shaw reaches for her medical kit. “And you have nothing more to teach me?”

She laughs drily. “I have plenty.” Root looks at her hopefully. “But I’d need time. And so would you. To recover, to build up muscle mass and memory.” A beat. “Time we don’t have.”

Root’s hopeful expression falls, and she sighs in resignation.

“Come on,” Shaw prompts again, settling down and clicking her scissors meaningfully, teasingly. “Let’s make sure you stay hot.”

Root’s smile is bittersweet, and she sits down across from her.

The silence isn’t awkward, but it’s unexpectedly long. Where before, Root never failed to have a quip or a flirt or a joke at the tip of her tongue, now she stays quiet, seemingly lost in thought. Shaw works equally quietly, making small snips in the stitches and gingerly pulling them out of the healing wounds. She catches sight of the remnant of the muzzle burn against Root’s heart, and she’s surprisingly relieved to see how much it has healed. She hopes it’s the last time she sees something like it on Root’s skin.

“Thank you,” Root says suddenly, softly.

Shaw looks up, taking in Root’s vulnerable, open expression and barely-there hint of a smile in surprise. Her heart skips a beat – annoying, as always – and she grunts noncommittally and pulls out the next stitch. “Besides breaking a guy’s hand for grabbing my ass last week, this is the most action I’ve had in a long time.”

Root’s tremulous, searching gaze eases as she raises her eyebrows curiously.  

“Oh, you know what I mean,” Shaw grumbles in reply. Root opens her mouth to make a comment, and she puts up her hand. “Also, before you go on a tirade, Sameen Grey would totally be able to break a guy’s hand. She grew up in Brooklyn.”

Root laughs. “Actually, I was just going to say it’s a shame Sameen Grey leads such a solitary life.  She should find some friends.”

Shaw snorts. “I’d prefer the type of ‘friends’ I can knock about a bit.”

Root’s smile widens in surprise at her honesty, and she begrudgingly returns it.

Slowly, though, unexpectedly, Root’s smile falls and turns bittersweet. Shaw holds her gaze curiously, searching, but the answer isn’t elusive. She’s also wondering when the next time will be that they meet, because they both know they can’t meet like this again. She looks away after a few seconds, the glint of emotion in Root’s eye feeling a bit too much like goodbye, pulls the last stitch reluctantly, and puts her tools aside.

“Thanks, Sameen,” Root says finally, eyes downcast, and gets up to go.

“Root...” Root looks back at her as she shoulders her sports bag. Shaw hesitates, but Root frowns curiously, and she pushes on. “Be careful, alright? Don't go looking for trouble.”

Root smiles apologetically. “You know it finds me anyway.”

It’s not enough, and she swallows tightly. “I… I know we're not supposed to know each other, but if they capture you, our covers are blown anyway. So if you need back-up, call me. Don’t act a hero.”

Root’s bittersweet smile turns up in surprise. “Careful, Sameen, it's really starting to sound like you care.”

For once, she doesn’t feel any inclination to suppress a huff of irritation, and she holds Root’s gaze and says simply: “You know what I care about.”

“Yes.” Root’s smile, finally, is genuine, and impossibly fond. “I know.”

Two weeks later, and she’s never been less happy to see bruises fading. Her left arm took the worst hits. Her ribs after that. And, despite Root’s assessment, her jaw. Her skin was a canvas of colors – deep purples fading to blue to green to yellow – and each mottled spot is a memory she’d hoped would be able to pull her through her monotonous, painless days. Soon she’ll be back to pale, excruciatingly boring Sameen Grey – avoiding parking lots and the danger of another pesky criminal who her colleagues think caused the bruises in the first place.

She smiles, thinking of said criminal.

If they only knew…

Still, though they’re fading, she’s glad she had to chance to get the bruises in the first place. She wonders if Root is in similar shape. The thought makes her both smile and worry. Smile because chances are Root’s been counting bruises just as much as she has. Worry because clearly injury isn’t very handy when Root is fighting for her life. Her lessons had better have increased the odds of her staying in one piece, not decreased them.

For the sake of the mission and all.

Her lips quirk in amusement.

Right.

The sound of an incoming email on her laptop pulls her out of her thoughts. She leans forward.

From: Unknown.

Subject: The mission

She frowns in confusion, and opens it. An image pops into existence, and she breaks into a smile when she realizes what she’s looking at: A high-angle cellphone selfie of Root straddling a knocked out Samaritan agent, face scrunched into a challenging, triumphant smirk and hand held steady in a knifehand strike above the agent’s carotid artery.

The caption below it reads: “The mission” is doing great.

As the picture disintegrates before her eyes and the email deletes itself, Shaw’s smile widens and she rolls her eyes.