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The world is infinite and cold and chaotic and Root has given up on good things happening to her.
Then she finds out about The Machine. The first time she hears Her voice in her ear, it's like being tethered, and coming untethered, all at the same time. The weight of all her useless rage finally has a meaningful direction to flow in. But whatever candle of order The Machine has lit in the world, it is a dim one, under siege. And it isn't going to stay lit long unless her own life is used as sacrifice. No, even now that there is a Plan, Root's happiness is not on that agenda.
So the first time Shaw takes her up on the (mostly) joking offer to sleep together, Root assumes there must be a catch. But Shaw doesn't have much in the way of baggage or catches, except one. No kissing. "It's easier that way," Shaw had said as they played their rapidly escalating game of sexual chicken out over the unconscious body of a CIA agent. "Otherwise people tend to get clingy, and I just can't handle that stuff."
A minor inconvenience, a curb in her usual routine. Not nearly so hard to curb as the temptation to kill people. So she had shrugged and gone along with it. Had pushed and then let herself be pushed back against the wall of the safe house.
Of course, Root enjoyed bending rules just as much as she longed for them. Finding out that Shaw actually had one rule, made it an easy target. A challenge in a world that provided too few challenges. She pursed her lips in mocking when they met. She called out the word in greeting, playing up the sing songy stickiness of its syllables. And Shaw would roll her eyes, keeping that wall intact, keeping it firmly there in the world of a joke. And neither of them had to face the consequences of their actions.
She heard from John later that there was another rule Sameen hadn't told her about - something about an approximate number of nights this - thing - was supposed to continue. They blew straight through that rule. They went around the world and back. Shaw cornered her in the back of the jet they'd hijacked and they made use of Root's handcuffs twice in one night. Armed men parted in front of them like the Red Sea as Shaw dispensed them with a swift kick of her heeled boots. And Root followed after, the Machine chattering in her ear and a gun lazily gripped in each hand. Each body falling at the right place, at the right time, in sequence. Everything happening as it should.
If, occasionally when they were alone, things didn't always happen precisely as they should, if they brushed noses as Root leaned down to whisper something encouraging in Shaw's ear, or if, once, when she came, Root bit Sameen's bottom lip in a manner that involved more tongue than teeth, well, she'd just apologize afterward, insincerely. And let Shaw chalk it up to Root's inherent contrariness, not to any growing attachment either of them needed to be concerned about.
By the time Root realizes it isn't a joke, it's too late. Too late to take the words back and too late to say them. For the first time she needs something and she isn't thinking about what she needs. Only about what Sameen needs. That Sameen needs to turn around and walk back into the elevator.
And then Sameen kisses her.
It's not particularly passionate or deep. It's filled with more frustration than affection. But like Sameen's mouth, the world has turned infinitely warm and forgiving. Giving. For yes, there is affection mixed in with the frustration.
Or maybe every gift from God comes in binary.
The Machine is an eerie whirring in her ear, Her numbers still continuing onwards in a string, indefinitely approaching but never reaching zero.
And the world is infinite and cold and chaotic and Root has given up on good things happening to her.