Work Text:
Just coffee, Shaw thinks to herself, fingers tapping against the polished wood of a café table. Her heart all but pounds just as fast. Coffee between friends- not even friends- colleagues. She finds herself distancing again, and doesn’t mind the feeling of iron bars snapping into place over her ribcage, blocking out every tie, thought, and pest-like emotion.
Still, her heart hammers, throttle pressed down to the max.
Peering down at the table, she watches the steam waft from the top of her coffee mug, swirling and tangling itself as it evanesces into the lights. The waitor placed it before her a few minutes ago, but she hasn’t touched it. Her mind has been too preoccupied with thinking and waiting.
Shaw’s eyes wander around the small café, noting the very few people sitting, smoldering drinks in hand. One reads the newspaper, another two never look up from their phones, and the other half dozen talk in mumbled voices that clash together at Shaw’s ears. Closing her eyes, she focuses on the gates in her chest, watching the latches all click into place as the lock finally catches. Now, there is nothing inside her except training and instinct- it feels good. It feels normal.
“Hey, Sweetie; you tired?” Shaw’s eyes snap open at the sound of Root’s affectionate voice, gaze focusing immediately on her smiling face. She takes a seat across from Shaw, setting down the boiling cup of coffee she just swiped from the counter. There’s nothing off about coffee between friends colleagues.
Shaw doesn’t respond, and Root’s mouth pulls into a smirk as she takes a sip of her beverage. A devious flame leaps in her eyes, leaving Shaw to dread what she’ll do next.
She’d been dreading a lot of things lately. Each idea was a grenade with the pin wiggling free; every step she takes having the potential to detonate a land mine. What to do, what to say, how to say it… every small thing leading back to a constant, pressing matter:
How to open up to Root.
It wouldn’t be easy, especially with Root’s uncanny ability to get under Shaw’s skin. For the past few weeks, Shaw had been meddling with ways to tell Root something- anything. Yet, each time Shaw thought she’d gotten the ball rolling, Root stopped it dead in its tracks.
“Sam?” Root calls with a sinister purr in her tone. “Is this… a date?”
Like that, Shaw seethes, jaw clenching and teeth grinding together. Just. Like. That.
Only two weeks earlier, they’d been talking over their comms. Nothing out of the ordinary, merely figuring out a plan of attack for their latest number. Root proposed that she would follow the number, and Shaw would follow Root, keeping enough distance to find anyone else who could be stalking their guy.
‘If he makes it to his apartment in one piece, we’ll meet up in the lobby and go from there,’ Root concluded, the scheme relatively simple.
‘Sounds like a date,’ Shaw’d responded, traveling with little aim down one of Manhattan’s side streets. That stupid little saying- one that everyone used and meant nothing at all- stuck like honey in Root’s head and left Shaw caught in an ugly bear trap. She’d stopped her brisk gate at Root’s sharp intake of breath, nearly getting knocked over by the small crowd rushing her from behind.
'A date?’
Root hadn’t let the slip go since.
“No,” Shaw spits tightly. “Not a date.”
“Not a very good one, at least,” Root corrects in a lazy tone, taking another swig of coffee as she looks around. Shaw’s lips part to ask what the hell that means, but knows that if she does, it will only strike out of her favor. Instead, she leans back in her chair, arms folded and eyes searing Root’s skin. “I took you to steal a jet. You took me out to a crappy cup of coffee.”
“You don’t have to like it,” Shaw all but growls between clenched teeth. “Because it’s not a date.” Root’s eyes flicker with delight at the word, smirk curling ever wider on her lips. Shaw only grows more tense.
Root’s phone pings, and she reads the message it bears quickly before stowing it away again. Her eyes become a mix of affection and apologies, but Shaw doesn’t allow her irritated countenance to falter.
“As fun as this has been,” Root starts, lopsided smile on her face that melts Shaw’s foul mood. “I gotta run.”
“The Machine give you something?” Shaw asks, grudgingly releasing her annoyance to lean secretively into the table. Root tilts her head, eyes softening before pushing back from her seat.
“Just John,” Root replies. “He says he needs a little back up.” Shaw wipes her hands down the front of her jeans before starting to stand. However, Root’s words stop her mid-way. “Computer backup.” Shaw plops back down at once, her previous annoyance leaking back into her veins. Root makes a witty goodbye that Shaw forcibly drowns out, then takes a large slug of coffee. It’s hot and bitter, scorching her throat all the way down; still, she welcomes the feeling. Anything to get her mind off of Root.
As always, the iron bars Shaw felt snapping into place only minutes ago is shredded and torn, bits thrown every which way like they’ve been sucked into a cyclone. Root has a way of doing that.
With a sigh, Shaw slumps back into her seat, eyes fixed on the half finished mug across from her. Unwilling to thinking about the brunette hacker that was sitting there.
Why did I ever think this would be a good idea, Shaw fumes to herself, head starting to pound. For the same reason I thought it would be a good idea for the past five weeks, she responds to herself, feeling ever more insane. It’s useless, Shaw decides at last, standing. She’s too insufferable for me to explain it.
________\ If Your Number’s Up /_________
“How’d you ever manage to shake Shaw?” Reese asks, looking past Root but not seeing the other half of the dangerous duo in sight. He smiles, seeing Root’s eyes narrow the smallest bit as she closes the gap between them.
“I’m assuming the same way Harold gets rid of you every morning,” she responds, chipper voice swirling with an icy undercurrent. John’s grin falters, sagging to one side before dropping completely.
“And just when I thought a 'It’s good to see you again’ might be in order.” Root’s previous edge begins to evaporate, and she peers up at the vast apartment complex before them.
“What are we here for?” She asks, glancing over at John, who merely fiddles for something in his pocket. After a moment, he protrudes his NYPD badge.
“Still carry that FBI ID card with you?” John responds, not really needing to ask to know the answer. Root slips it from her jacket pocket, snapping it open with a flare of pride. Reese’s grin returns as he yanks open the door, a rush of heat greeting them. With a tinge of enjoyment in Reese’s voice and a supercilious glow in his eyes, he says, “We’re gonna be cops.”
__________\ We’ll Find You /__________
After wandering through the longest possible route back to the subway station, Shaw clambers onto the terminal, her day job shift not starting for another two hours. Looking around, she finds Harold Finch unlatching his brief case, nose red and cheeks pink from the chilly outside air.
Peering up, he sees her, and a curiosity flashes in his eyes. “Alone?” He asks, gaze coming back down to his computer screen. He presses the power button, and the sounds of fans turning and electricity humming instantly roars to life.
“Yeah,” Shaw replies slowly, annoyance mingled with questioning. “John and Root are working on a number.” Harold pauses, hand freezing midway to the contents of his briefcase. It falls back to his side; he turns to face her, eyes narrowed.
“We don’t have a number,” he responds, sounding just as confused as Shaw feels. With a surge of life, Harold speedily logs onto his computer, searching for anything that could prove him wrong. Shaw runs her tongue over her teeth, rolling her eyes as she pulls out her cell. Hitting a button, the sound of pre-set keypad beeps file through, then a ringing takes over.
It only takes a minute for the line to pick up, and Shaw imediately hears shoes on hard floors and the putter of old vents pushed too far.
“Miss me already?” Root’s coy voice fills Shaw’s head, leaving her fighting to keep hold of the anger she feels.
“Not quite,” Shaw responds, heading over to Harold’s desk as he sits, fingers already typing a thousand words a minute. “Where did you say you were going again?” Shaw forces her tone to sound casual, but she can tell by the pause on Root’s end of the line that it wasn’t so convincing. Hitting the speaker button, Shaw places the phone on the desk, leaning in on taut arms- waiting.
“Just out to help John with some mission,” Root replies easily, and Shaw’s eyebrows raise.
“What, with a number?” Shaw questions further, this time receiving no delay.
“Mmhmm.”
“Try again, Miss Groves,” Harold interjects, and Shaw looks over his way. “There is no number.”
Silence.
The footsteps stop, leaving only the clinking grind of dusty air ducts to fill the void as seconds that hold like eternities pass. Finally, there’s a click, and another line enters the conversation.
“Never took you for the kind to rat people out, Shaw,” John’s voice carries a neutral tone, and the footsteps start once more.
“It’s not ratting if you don’t know what’s going on in the first place, Reese,” Shaw retorts, unable to mask her distaste.
“Where are you?” Harold asks, something like concern gripping his words. There is another pause, as if John is debating upon telling them at all.
“Owner’s Corporation apartment building on East 73rd and 2nd Ave,” he answers at last, and Harold begins plugging the information into his computer at once.
“What are you guys doing there?” Shaw asks him, waiting with dwindling patience for the answer. This is her million dollar question.
“Remember Taylor?” John answers with a question of his own, and Shaw’s mind is instantly flooded with images of the lanky teenager.
“What about him.”
“Paul tried to get clean. Did a good job too, except for this one group of guys.” Resentment grows in his voice like a nest of angry wasps, ready to sting, to strike- to kill. “I’ve been watching them, and they’re planning something. I just want to make sure they keep Taylor out of it.”
“If he was in danger, the Machine would warn us,” Harold points out, yet it’s a raindrop in the ocean to Reese.
“Your Machine looks for murder. This is trouble.” He says no more, and Harold stops typing as little black rectangles on his screen become- pixel by pixel- footage from the building’s security cameras.
“I’m sure Carter would love to hear a criminal is keeping tabs on her son and ex,” Shaw cracks, although there is the thinnest strand of sincerity hidden deep within. Peering over Harold’s shoulder, she is dismayed to see the poor quality of the feed, the cameras taking photos only every few seconds instead of a solid video. Then, another thought hits her, and anger overcomes her once more. “Why’d you bring her, then?” Shaw demands, sounding nearly taken aback.
“Because Fusco’s a little busy, and you don’t have a badge.” From the little boxes on screen, Shaw’s eyes spot a run-down lobby, where stills of Reese and Root jump by. As Reese stops at the counter, Root’s eyes hold firmly to the camera. In the next picture, she’s smiling; and in the one after, she holds up a small black wallet with a photo ID on one side and a metallic badge in the other.
Note to self, Shaw grumbles, get one of those.
After the stills portray both Root and John showing the clerk and the manager their credentials, they are lead graciously over to the elevators; the manager handing Root a set of keys.
“As if we’ll need these,” Root remarks pleasurably into her earwig, jingling the small set.
“I thought you said you were doing ’computer’ stuff,” Shaw directs to Root. Root’s smug smirk is quickly replaced by widened eyes and lips pressed together tight.
“Maybe she just didn’t want to hurt your feelings, Shaw,” John responds in an innocent manner.
“Feelings?” Shaw scoffs. “What feelings?”
“I think she’s just afraid to talk about them,” Root comments with a dream-like quality, and Shaw wishes she could reach through the screen to strangle her. Afraid? Please. Snapping the cell off of speaker, Shaw cranks up her earpiece, skin steaming with sudden rage.
“Can the two of you just get back to whatever the Hell you were doing?” Shaw growls, ears feeling hot.
“Gladly,” John replies before shutting off his ear wig. Shaw debates upon doing the same- maybe grinding it under her heel for good measure- yet accepts it as their only source of sound in the end.
With an inaudible sigh, Shaw shuffles away from the desk, needing to sort out her cluttered head. How do you explain emotions to someone who only ever jokes about them?
She doesn’t know. She has no idea- not a clue. She’d never had this problem before, and honestly never thought she would. But here she is, watching it eat away at her like wolves to fresh kill.
And in the realm of joking, is that all Root’s flirting has cracked up to be? The idea leaves a pit in the bottom of Shaw’s stomach, and with it a queasy ache.
What will Root think if I tell her? That might be her largest worry of all. Although she scoffed at the idea of being afraid moments ago, this was a real terror bearing menace. Shaw’d spent so much time telling everyone- especially Root- that emotions were over rated and useless; how possible would it be to reverse all of that in a day? Easing the explanation in over time doesn’t seem like an option, for every small break Root gets, she runs with, which only leaves Shaw regretting the decision more. She’s torn between keeping her mouth shut and setting her mind free- it’s a twisted battle that is steadily throwing her into turmoil.
An obnoxious yelling shakes Shaw from her thoughts, and she finds loud but indistinguishable voices spilling from her earwig. Stopping a pace she hadn’t known she’d started, Shaw focuses on the sounds.
“… That boy….. nuthin’….. our money’s our…….. Dead meat.” John’s voice comes in a chilling reply, deep voice like an omen of death.
Whatever reply John gave is met with the slamming of a door. Footsteps swallow up the halls, loud and fast like a stampede of a thousand bulls as they bounce off the walls. There are a couple of crashes, bangs, and three or so yelps. A ding of an elevator door and a loud series of pops before quiet settles in. Peering over her shoulder for a split second, Shaw sees no bloodshed. Just a few people roaming the halls and taking elevator rides. Eyes back on the blank wall before her, she focuses on every last sound.
Heavy breathing is the first thing that stands out to her, followed by the faint hum of elevator music.
“Hey, Sweetie, you busy?” Root’s voice is a breathy scream in comparison to the background noise Shaw had been listening into before, and she quickly turns the volume down on her comm, a ringing erupting in her right ear.
“Do I sound busy?” Shaw retorts irritably, allowing a hefty silence to follow her words.
“No need to be rude,” Root replies in an affectionate tone, her heavy breathing all but nonexistent now.
“Root, what do you want?” Shaw asks with a note of defeat. “Because if it’s backup, you should have thought about that before you left me at the coffee shop.” A small tut escapes Root on the other end of the line, and Shaw’s lips purse.
“If you’re still upset that I skipped out on our date,” Root responds, pleasure seeping from every syllable, “we’ll just have to reschedule.” Shaw feels an annoyed tick inside, but doesn’t fight her on it.
“You’re avoiding the topic,” Shaw states, trying to squelch her irritation.
“Can’t a couple of gals take a little break from work to catch up?” Shaw wants to say no. To say talking is over rated; or to flat out express her overwhelming annoyance at Root’s forever comical manner. Instead, she ignores it all.
“Yeah, sure, fine,” Shaw responds nonchalantly, hoping that this will somehow be a step in the right direction. “What do you want to talk about.”
“I just want to-”
“M-Miss- Miss Shaw,” Harold’s voice quakes out with petrified horror, and Shaw’s attention snaps to him immediately. “You- you need to see this.”
“Hold on, Root,” Shaw says to her, turning back towards the desk.
“No, Shaw, it’s-”
“It’ll only take a second,” Shaw interrupts, turning her earwig down to the last notch as she approaches Harold. “What’s got you spooked?” She asks in a bored tone, leaning against the desk. He looks to her with grave eyes wide behind black rimmed glasses.
“Camera six,” he responds, and Shaw’s eyes flicker through them swiftly, stopping on an elevator. In it, she can make out grainy stills of Root leaning against the wall. In each frame, her mouth has moved- some she’s even watching the camera- but Shaw doesn’t quite understand the concern.
“Afraid of elevators?” Shaw guesses in a sarcastic attempt. Harold doesn’t even acknowledge his distaste; instead, he jabs his finger into a different section of the screen. Shaw’s eyes follow, and she sees a small group of blurry men as they rush down a staircase. Even with their smudged complexions, one thing comes into crystal clear view: guns.
The photos show them racing down flight after flight of stairs before the disappear from the cameras on floor three. Shaw’s eyes search the jumble of security feeds until she finds them again, standing in front of an elevator. They press the elevator button and wait. The elevator floor number reads eight. Three pixelated stills later it reads seven.
Shaw’s eyes snap back to camera six, where Root still stands against the wall, looking more urgently into the security camera than ever. Dread surges through Shaw’s heart as fear squeezes all the air from her lungs, and she speedily turns the volume back up on her ear piece. Without pausing to hear what Root is saying, Shaw cuts her off with a forceful tone.
“Root, you have to listen to me. Whatever you do, don’t let the elevator doors open. There are people on floor three waiting for you.” Eyes tearing from Root to the men waiting, Shaw feels her stomach jump to her throat. The elevator now reads level five.
“Call John,” Shaw commands, and Harold all but drops his phone as he fumbles for the keypad. Where is he? Shaw wonders, not seeing him anywhere. What the Hell did he get the two of them into?
“Sameen? You said we coul-”
“We’ll talk later,” Shaw assures her, voice relatively calm while the rest of her hangs from a tight wire. “There’s about five of them- armed. Do you know where John went?”
Shaw taps her foot, wanting to scan the screens for him but unable to take her eyes from Root. It’s the worst kind of horror movie. One that’s grainy and hard to make out, a silent film lagging on screen, but you still know more than the lead. They might know they’re in trouble, but only you know just how much.
“Um… he went down another hallway. I haven’t been able to reach him since.” Shaw swears beneath her breath as the sound of two safeties clicking off greets her ears. Root presses herself to the side of the elevator, weapons drawn and ready.
“Root,” Shaw snarls in a dangerous voice. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Not thinking,” Root replies, voice somewhere between excited and nervous. “Just going for it.”
“Keep. the doors. closed.”
‘Ding.’
The sound sends a chill down Shaw’s spine, and she barely dares to look at the hallway feed. To her not-surprise but still heart pounding alarm, the elevator reads three.
Just before they begin to open, one of the men is caught looking into the camera during one photo. In the next his gun is raised. In the third, the screen is black.
The elevator is empty.
Until it isn’t. Shaw hears an arsenal of firearms letting loose, not knowing who is who and what’s hit what. A man is thrown into the elevator, crumpling on the floor in a bloodied heap. More gunfire rounds off, and someone else flies into the little metal box.
“John’s coming,” Harold less than whispers, transfixed by the set of screens before him. “Next floor down.”
That’s not good enough, Shaw wants to spit back. She wants to strike a hole through the wall or shoot the computer until it’s swiss cheese. He needs to be there now. And as impossible as it is, Shaw is overcome with a sense that she needs to be there now as well. Shaw checks the gun in her waistband and the one strapped to her ankle before grabbing a loose set of keys from the desk, ready to move.
However, before she gets the chance, Harold grabs her forearm. She rips her arm away, but stays where she is at the countenance he wears. It’s indescribable, but it can mean only one thing. Holding her breath and tightening her stomach, Shaw forces her eyes back to camera six.
There’s another body thrown to the ground. This one is tall and slender with wavy, brown hair.
________\ Secrets Kill /________
It wasn’t her.
That’s the only thing that kept Shaw from ripping John’s throat out the moment she saw him. He came to a dead stop from sixty, wheels screaming in protest, jumping out the drivers seat before the SUV even knew it was put into park. Shaw’s heart was sputtering, against her wishes, and only grew worse as John lifted Root from the back passenger seat. Although Root wasn’t killed at the apartment building, something had happened. Something John was too busy to explain on the phone, which left Shaw to a dark and dangerous imagination for an immeasurable stretch of time.
Root had been shot twice.
Keeping up with John’s stupendous strides as he stalked into the subway station, Shaw could make out the dark spots of fabric that had been matted to Root’s pale as marble skin. John too, had a wound of his own- he’d been stabbed in the shoulder in the brawl. Shaw couldn’t be less concerned with it and voiced as much to him. He got himself into that mess.
After laying Root out onto a stripped down cot set with a- call it ’borrowed’- supply of medical supplies at its side, Shaw dropped down to get a good look at the damage done. One to the upper leg and one to the chest.
Blood seemed to come in pools and rivers, leaving even Shaw- who didn’t want to admit it- dizzy. Just knowing that it was Root’s and it was everywhere was enough to send Shaw’s thoughts into a frenzy. Before she even had to ask, Reese was out of the station, mind set on getting some blood from a nearby hospital.
Root was conscious- for a while. Enough for Shaw to stop the bleeding in her leg, not even resetting the spiderweb of fractures along her femur. To Shaw’s relief, the bullet went straight through while staying a measly five millimeters away from her femoral artery.
Once Shaw started on the bullet wound to Root’s chest cavity, that’s when things took a nose dive. Root groaned, teeth grinding in agony and knuckles turning white from gripping the edge of the cot as Shaw fished for the projectile. Then her eyes rolled, and she was out cold.
As much as Shaw didn’t like watching Root squirm under the pain, she hated knowing Root blacked out, and that all chances instantly dropped to a fifty-fifty success range. Either she’d wake up or she wouldn’t.
That, however, was three hours ago. Since, Harold went back to college to preach his third seminar of the day, and Reese was called out on a murder case with Detective Fusco. In the end, with twitching nerves and hands that needed something to do, Shaw grudgingly patched John up, making sure to clean the gash with something sure to burn. Shaw called out of work for a medical emergency, set Root’s leg, and has been hovering since.
Now, as it verges four in the afternoon, Shaw checks Root’s IV, blood pressure, and all other vitals she can think of for the umpteenth time.
With waiting for Root to resurface, Shaw has had plenty of time to think. As if I haven’t been thinking enough lately, she cracks, head resting on the empty space of cot near Root’s waist. She lays on the ground at the thin bedding’s side, staring up at the arching ceiling. While Shaw would have preferred a bed more than six inches off the ground, it’s still better than playing operation on the tile floor. Slightly. Fingers laced over her chest, Shaw stares at each crack in the ancient tiles until her vision falls out of focus.
As soon as Shaw finished patching Root up, she knew that she had to say it. Say everything that had been pressing down on her mind for so long. It doesn’t seem to matter to her now that it could be all a joke to Root. This was a closer call than she’d ever like to encounter, and Shaw decides she wants Root to at least know what’s in her head before one of them aren’t so lucky. And, Hell, Shaw adds to herself with a small kick of humor. No matter how it pans out, at least this will get it out of my head.
Root coughs, and Shaw darts straight up, eyes like laser sights aimed right at her. Root’s eyes flicker open, and her head lolls to the side. She licks her parched lips, then starts to sit up. Her eyes burst open wide, wind escaping her as she drops back down, mouth frozen in a pained 'O’.
“Feel like crap,” she croaks out, squeezing her eyes shut tight before opening them again.
“You look as much,” Shaw responds, although a quirk of a smile rests on her lips as she sits to face Root. Root smiles a toothy grin, eyes forgetting all hurt as they glow with affection.
“How would I ever get by without your heart warming compliments,” Root coos sarcastically, and Shaw’s heart begins to drum, mind chanting along with each beat.
Tell-her. Tell-her. Tell-her.
Shaw swallows, then presses her lips together in thought. She went from having every word planned out to the dotted 'i’s and crossed ’t’s, to drawing an absolute blank. Why, she scolds herself, why pick now of all times to be nervous.
“Everything okay?” Shaw starts, feeling like an idiot the second it leaves her. Root looks her over a moment before responding.
“Considering I get to have you as my doctor?” Root asks before taking a second’s ponderance. “I’m thinking I should get shot more often.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea,” Shaw says to her seriously, but receives Root’s mellifluous laugh in return. It leaves something warm like the sun and sweet like sugar coursing through her veins.
Rolling her neck, Root tries once more to sit up. This time, she moves at a snail like pace, waiting for any pain to erupt in her chest. After thirty seconds of the ordeal, Shaw can take the verging pathetic show no more; she moves in, wrapping an arm around Root’s waist to help her up.
Finally in a position that’s the least painful, Root takes a glance around at her makeshift hospital bed. Then, her gaze falls back to Shaw, who holds it steadily. Slowly, Shaw finds Root’s cheeks changing from pale to pink. Her eyes flicker down, then back to Shaw before she turns another shade deeper.
Curious, Shaw peers down, then promptly gives herself a mental smack to the back of her head. With an inaudible grumble, Shaw removes her arm from around Root’s waist, flustered. Smooth, her mind snickers cruelly, and Shaw rolls her eyes. Yet, at the last second, she catches Root’s timid- almost secretive- smile. With it, there is a clicking in the back of Shaw’s mind, and all her lost words come racing back, fighting to come out first.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she starts off, immediately grabbing Root’s attention. “You’re hot; you’re good with a gun- those are two qualities I greatly admire.” Root twists to face her, wincing slightly, all the while a poorly hidden grin slinks onto her face. Root begins to open her mouth to say something, but Shaw plows ahead, knowing if Root gets in a single jest she’ll shut down.
“You’re also a pain in the ass,” Shaw tells her, receiving playfully narrowed eyes. “I don’t think there’s one day I’ve known you that you haven’t irritated me in some way. You’re stubborn. And mentally unstable half the time.” Root raises an eyebrow, and Shaw realizes that her speech is quickly falling off the side of a cliff. She clears her throat. “But uhm… but-”
“But what?” Root interrupts, voice slick and cool as she leans in Shaw’s way, eyes still light hearted despite Shaw’s list of qualities. “But you love me?” A chuckle escapes her briefly, deeming the question a mere fantasy.
“Strong word choice,” Shaw warns, eyes not leaving Root’s face. The smile that came with the laugh vanishes at once. “But yeah. Something like that.”
Root gawks, and Shaw finds the weight of her gaze crushing. Turning away, Shaw brings her knees up to her chest, arms incasing her legs as she looks straight ahead. Trying her best to block Root out.
“Stop that, would you?” She growls, still feeling the singe of Root’s stunned gaze on the side of her face. The feeling goes away after that, and there is a few silent moments between them- Shaw dead as a rock and Root sending out waves of twitterpated excitement.
Shaw hears a shift from her left, yet doesn’t look over, not sure if she wants to see the look on Root’s face just yet. Something heavy rests atop Shaw’s shoulder, and she can feel Root’s breath on the side of her neck. Heart hopping into her mouth, she forces it back down and counts to three before pushing into a standing position. She can feel the red hot heat radiating from the tops of her ears, and by the smug grin on Root’s face, she can see it plain as day.
Flustered once more, Shaw rolls her jaw in a tight circle, breathing in deeply before saying a word.
“I’ll go out. Grab some sandwiches or something and we can eat here. Okay?” Root’s smile widens, a flare in her eyes that screams with something clever. Something Shaw knows will rub her the wrong way.
“What now,” she sighs out in irritated defeat. Root keeps quiet a moment, relishing the thought in solitude a little longer before replying in a giddy tone.
“It’s a date."