Chapter Text
CHAPTER 3
Root is alone in a dark room, counting pi. Unlike Harold, the infinity of pi has always frustrated her. Why is life confined to the circumference of a circle, and if it contains all the answers, then why. When Root was nine, she tried to learn every digit of pi so that, one day, she would hold the answer to a question she didn’t even know yet. She got to 278 numbers, and then became bored. Other questions needed answers, and unlike the universe, the questions computers raised were contained in a finite system.
So she sits in a room, and lets her brain remember the digits. Perhaps they will ask her a question, and she will hold the answer in her brain, since the voice of Answers in her ear has been conspicuously silent recently.
Sadly, when the men do ask her questions, they do want numbers as answers. But pi is not the right number; they want people and bank accounts and her to give up the Big Boss. “Who employed you?” they snarl.
“seven, one, four, eight, six, six, nine…” this is not what they want. A man with rings on his fingers slaps Root, but she ignores the pain blooming across her face.
The next morning, they try again. Root’s still counting, but then the man drops a name.
A name; there is so much power in a name. She stops counting, and tilts her head and looks up. “Oh, Mr. Merritt wants to know?” She grins. Mr. Merritt has no issue with the machine; the Big Boss he is searching for is physical and organic. Root’s hands are bound and sitting on her lap with zip wires, but her legs are free. Of course these men are not looking for Her.
They are looking for a crime boss who stole nearly a billion dollars from Merritt and Partners seven years ago.
They are looking for Root.
Root smiles, and goes back to counting.
They leave her. They clearly don’t know what to do. Mr. Merritt, Root decides, was far better at being a victim than a perpetrator.
Hours pass. Root continues counting.
“nine, four, one, five, one, one, six;” there is a clash outside the door. Two men run in, Root ignores them. “zero, nine…”
“Should we kill her?” Root doesn’t look up, but she stops counting. A man is holding a gun close to her. Three notes in her ear ascend; Root kicks the man on her right in the knee, hard. He buckles, and falls. An old war wound, Root guesses, but then the notes in her head descend, and she whips around to kick a gun out of the hand of the questioning security guard.
“Broken collarbone,” a voice whispers to Root, and she slams down on his collarbone with her bound hands. Or tries to; the man is bigger and faster than Root, and her hands are still tied and really, and omniscient technology can only get her so far. The Bigger Man slams her down on the ground, Root is winded. He holds her down with one arm as she struggles, but her hands are still bound and she can’t do anything.
Suddenly the other man gets up. Root is outnumbered and painfully alone, and she knows this is all her fault.
“Sorry,” a voice in her ear beeps, and Root is angry. There is no reason for Her to be sorry; these men want Root for Root, not for Analog Interface. She created this mess herself, and there is no reason for anyone or anything to save her.
The man on top of Root starts to swing blows at her, and Root tries to make herself as small as physically possible and refuses to make a sound as the blows continue to rain.
Root is almost unconscious when Shaw shoulders her way into the tiny room and kneecaps the offenders. Root tries to smile, a slight wry grin, but she passes out before Shaw can even take in the scene.
Agent Shaw of the Central Intelligence Unit would have called this one in, and then walked away; an ambulance and others would have dealt with this. Ms. Shaw, who worked with Reese and Finch, would have brought this young woman, covered in bruises and bleeding, to a hospital on Finch’s command. But now, Shaw was alone, and she was no longer Shaw. She is Sam, and Sam does not have the emotional fortitude to walk away from Nora St John.
Shaw sighs and kneels down next to Root. She is breathing, but as Shaw touches her sides, she can feel several broken ribs. Root’s shirt, but there is no cut. She carefully arranges Root in the recovery position and then calls Karen.
“I have a patient for you,” she snaps as Karen picks up.
“What?” Karen is out of breath and surprised.
“Get an ambulance and meet me in Brooklyn in 10 minutes.”
“Our shift doesn’t start for another five minutes Shaw!”
“There is a woman. She’s injured.”
“Oh! Okay! I’ll be there immediately.”
Shaw sighs and picks up Root. She’s tall, but light. She carefully carries her out the building, ignoring the men writhing in pain around her.
When Root wakes up, the first thing she notices is Shaw. “I knew you couldn’t resist saving me,” she whispers, grinning triumphantly. She’s in a hospital bed; there are several different IV drips in her arm, feeding her new blood and strength. Shaw has been curled up in the cheap plastic chair next to the hospital bed, neck cramping every time she tries to sleep.
“There is no need to be so cocky right now, Root,” she replies. “You are lying in a hospital bed on the brink of death because I saved you before they could finish.”
“Oh, stop being dramatic,” Root corrects, sharing a smile with Shaw. Shaw falls back in her chair and sighs loudly. Root looks around; she’s not feeling dizzy anymore. She carefully touches her ribs. They are bound. Her lip has stopped bleeding, though her right eye is swollen shot. Her left arm is in a cast. She didn’t even realise she broke her arm. She tilts her head, and stretches her neck. She flexes her fingers, and then glances up at the security camera in her room.
It’s off right now.
Root wonders how much its straining Her to keep it that. She turns towards a slouched Shaw.
“Get me out of here.” Shaw raises and eyebrow.
“Seriously?” She asks, incredulous. She gestures at Root’s berobed state. Root shakes her head.
“Nora has a very nice apartment,” she states, as if this is an explanation.
“Who is Nora?” Shaw asks. Root rolls her eyes and hisses as she pulls the needle from her wrist. Next to hert, a machine begins to beep loudly. But it’s the wrong type of Machine, so Root ignores it.
“Me,” she breathes out before swinging her legs over the side of the bed and wavering slightly. “Where are my clothes?” She demands, swaying. Shaw unfurls from her chair with an exasperated sigh and brings Root her clothes. Root squints at Shaw. She takes a bog, steadying breath, and slowly gets dressed while Shaw respectfully stares out of the window. She makes to get up, but wavers dangerously. Shaw turns and lays both her hands on Root’s shoulder to steady her.
“Perhaps I lost more blood than I realised,” Root whispers. Shaw rolls her eyes and picks up Root almost effortlessly.
“Probably,” she agrees, depositing Root into a wheelchair. “Please tell me you still remember your address though.”
“Of course,” Root whispers, her eyes fluttering closed. Shaw sighs and twists through the back exit of the hospital. Root was clocked as a Jane Doe; Shaw pocketed all her identities herself. This way, they will fall off the hospital’s radar as fast as possible. Shaw gets to the back entrance and flags them down a taxi. Root is awake, but Shaw lifts her from the chair anyway. Root grins, and happily tells the taxi driver her new address.
Root is exhausted by the time they arrive though; she lives in an old enough building that there are no lifts, so she walks all three floors. Shaw follows her at a concerned distance so she can catch her if she falls. Root doesn’t fall, but by the time they arrive in her apartment, she doesn’t even make it to the bed, choosing instead to collapse on the sizable sofa. Shaw tries to move her, but she whines, resisting, and so Shaw leaves her be. When Shaw tries to leave though, Root makes a quiet sound of protest.
“I could still die, you now,” she murmurs into the beige material of the couch. Shaw raises an eyebrow.
“You have a concussion, Root.”
“And broken ribs. And this!” She holds up her arm with the cast.
“And?” Shaw asks, exasperated.
“They mean,” Root mumbles, “that I should be supervised.” It is four AM on a Friday morning and Shaw has not slept in too long. She sighs.
“Fine,” she mutters.
Root wakes up at 8am. She has a pounding headache, and rubs her eyes. She takes a couple of painkillers, and then Nora St John calls her assistant Phillip to ask him to delay all her appointments.
“Are you okay, Doctor St John?” He asks, voice on edge. Root rubs her neck; it’s oddly stiff.
“Just have a temperature,” she lies pleasantly.
“Those are the worst,” he agrees, and then he begins listing some easy cures. Nora listens while Root is doing other things. She finishes the conversation. Over night, the printer seems to have randomly printed a phone number. Root calls, and gets a deli. She tilts her head, and asks the guy to bring their specialities. “We’re famous for our chicken soup!” the young man on the phone explains. Root smirks, and orders food.
She goes to her bedroom. Shaw is asleep, face down, on top of the duvet. Root lies down next to her, facing her, though she has burrowed under her blanket. Shaw eyes flickers open.
“What are you doing,” she demands softly; she doesn’t want to irritate Root’s fragile head. Root smiles.
“Sleeping,” she murmurs, and then goes back to sleep. It’s oddly intimate, though they are not even touching. Even when she sleeps, Root has a tiny frown on her face, almost cautious. Shaw sighs, exasperated, but also goes back asleep again. It’s too early to be worrying about anything much anyway.
When Shaw wakes up the second time, Root is sitting in the middle of the bed, fiddling with her cast. Shaw sits up and swats away her hand. Root smiles and tilts her head. Her hair is all mused up, and her eye is still swollen shut. “Thanks for saving me, Sameen,” she murmurs.
“I don’t think the Machine would have ever let me sleep if anything happened to you,” Shaw replies wryly, getting up.
“She can be persistent,” Root agrees, watching Shaw leave the room. Shaw is in the kitchen, rooting through Root’s cupboards searching for food when the doorbell rings.
“Are you expecting someone?” Shaw asks. Root grins and slips out of the bed.
“I ordered chicken soup for us.” Shaw watches her go with a glare.
“You know, I can actually cook,” she calls after her. Root gives her that exasperated look.
“That may be,” she says, “but this is your favorite deli,” and then she opens the door.
“How do you – ” Shaw stops herself. Of course, Root would know. Shaw walks around the counter to join Root at the door where an awkward young man handing Root a large box of food, trying desperately not to stare at her swollen eye and bruised face. Root isn’t fazed; she smiles at him, charmingly. He looks past her and sees Shaw, and waves awkwardly.
“Hey Sam,” he mutters, blushing a deep red.
“I didn’t know you did deliveries, Mark,” Shaw says, crossing her arms belligerently.
“We don’t,” he squeaks, confirming Shaw’s suspicion. He adds, “Doctor St John is an exception.”
“An important exception,” Root agrees, handing him a wad of bills and taking the flat cardboard container full of food off him with her one uninjured arm.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” He asks, awkwardly, gesturing towards Root’s eye and arm. Root smiles at him, and waves him off with her cast. “But I can take that for you,” he adds, as she winces slightly. Shaw has already stepped forward and taken the food off Root though.
“No, it fine,” Root says, waving him off. “Being a psychiatrist is just a more dangerous job than you would expect,” she tells him with a gleeful smirk. He gulps and nods.
“I suppose,” he agrees.
“See you then!” She chirps, and closes the door.
“You look like you ordered enough food for a whole army,” Shaw notes wryly, putting the box down on the counter with a heavy thud. Root follows her, grinning.
“I kind of did,” she agrees. Shaw tilts her head.
“Why?” She asks. Root shrugs.
“I don’t think I’ll be leaving the house much with this noticeable injury.”
“You’ll be able to cover it with makeup by Monday,” Shaw points out. Root nods, thoughtfully.
“I suppose I will have to,” she agrees.
“You’re not going to work today?” Shaw asks, surprised. Root makes a face. Shaw had forgot; Root is not used to injuries in the same way Shaw is used to injuries. Shaw has catalogued and ordered ever pain that her body could produce with the neat alienation of someone who has been bruised and battered too often to be considered normal. Root, on the other hand, is fragile; Shaw surveys her, but this time with the critical eye of a potential doctor. Her dressing needs to be changed soon, and someone needs to monitor her concussion. For a second, Shaw wonders why she listened to Root's request to leave the hospital; right now, she should not be alone. So Shaw sighs, and pulls out her phone.
"You have a phone?" Root demands, face lighting up. Shaw emphasises the flipping motion needed to open her phone; the phone is old, and definitely nothing to be excited about. Still, Shaw finds herself smirking; she likes surprising Root. It’s not often one can surprise the analogue interface of an omniscient machine.
"No," Shaw clarifies: "Sam Saunders has a phone. She needs to be available in case of an emergency at work and she did not want to invest in a landline."
"Sam Saunders, EMT, right?" Root clarifies.
"Boring Sam Saunders," Shaw agrees. Root smirks.
"You should see what She gave Reese as a job."
"Your machine gave us the fake identities?"
"She gave me randomized jobs. For some of the people I refreshed until she gave me something I liked, but for others there was no time." Shaw decides to ignore the implications of that and turns to Root with vicious excitement.
"So what's Reese up to?" She demands.
"Cooking."
"What?"
"He's a fry cook." Shaw grins.
"Are you serious?"
"We should go visit him at work sometime," Root grins. Shaw nods avidly, and then bites her lip. Shaw looks back down at her phone, and remembers why she pulled it out. She starts navigating to her contacts while Root slithers around the counter to stand eerily close.
"Can I have Sam Saunders number?" She asks, breathing into Shaw's ear.
"No," Shaw replies resolutely, texting Karen. She gets an immediate reply of "lol sure THANG anything 4 u bbff emt BUDDY have fun w ur gf!!!!!!!!!!" which Root finds incredibly amusing over Shaw's shoulder. Shaw flips the phone shut again and closes it.
"What did you text her?" Root asks, having only seen the reply.
"I have the day off," Shaw explains curtly. Root sits up on the counter and tilts her head.
"Did you just ask your friend for a favour?" She asks, grinning. Shaw rolls her eyes and reaches for the closest paper bag.
"She is not a friend and this is not a favour," she explains simply and opens the bag. Inside, there is a clear contained of soup. She pulls it out and starts looking through Root's kitchen to find bowls. Root is no help at all: for someone who has lived in this apartment for nearly three months she has no idea where any of the cutlery or utensils is.
"The apartment came furnished," she replies shrugging, when Shaw demands to know how she survived.
Soup is arranged in bowls and Shaw offers Root her bowl. Root looks around; there are no stools, to sit on. “Hold on,” Root instructs, trying to push herself up to sit on the counter with one arm. She pales, though does not let out a sound of pain, as she hoists herself up, clearly straining her broken rib. Shaw puts down the bowls.
“Here, let me inspect that,” she mutters, stepping forward. She places a careful hand on Root’s ribcage; it’s warm and probing in a gentle, knowledgeable way.
There is something tender in her eyes; Root wants to stop it, to harden it with a well worded innuendo. She does not like this pure unbridled affection; it crawls on her like uncomfortable heat. Shaw pushes on Root’s ribs and Root winces. Shaw is cataloguing Root’s wounds with the reverence of a pilgrim. Root wants to stop her, force against a counter and show her that no one is allowed to look at Root like that. Right now, Root is fallible bone and flawed skin. She does not deserve this reverence. But then she shivers, and her goosebumps rise underneath Shaw’s hand. Shaw glances up at her, seeking permission. Root gulps. Shaw smiles, and leans down and gently, ever so gently, kisses Root’s stomach. It’s barely a breath against warm skin, a victorious grin, but Root’s skin beings to crawl again. Shaw pushes up Root’s shirt and kisses her again, more deliberately. Root tries to suffuse her body with reason, but there is too much tenderness in Shaw. Root’s body succumbs, and she pushes her hips up, begging for more physical contact. But Shaw works her way up methodologically, slowly unbuttoning one button at a time, savouring Root’s body. Root’s hand threads itself through Shaw’s hair and pulls her up, almost harshly, to kiss. Her cast rests on Shaw’s shoulder, heavily, but Shaw doesn’t mind.
Shaw’s kisses are languid, but burning, singeing the roof of Root’s mouth as she pulls Shaw closer. Shaw’s hip is pressed against Root’s; Root clasps her legs around Shaw’s back and pulls her closer, demanding friction. Her groin collides with Shaw’s thigh, and she arches up. Her breathless, silent demands are unregistered by Shaw’s careful ministrations. Shaw’s hand trails down from Root’s neck to her breasts right when Shaw bites down on Root’s lip. The pain, soothed by the gentle sucking mere seconds afterwards, distracts Root as she shudders into the affections. Shaw begins palming Root’s left breast; it’s on the border of painful, and sends electrical shivers down her spines. She shudders, hugging Shaw closer in an attempt to conduct any of her sparks.
Shaw breaks away from Root’s mouth and leans down to gently bite down on Root’s breast. She bites, and then sucks, and Root pushes her pelvis into Shaw’s hips impatiently. Shaw’s hand trails down Root’s body and slips into Root’s pants. Root is wet and frantic; her panting is demanding and commanding and she whines, loudly, for more. Shaw grins and carefully slips inside of Root. Root is burning, like a volcano, on the edge of eruption. Shaw bites down on Root’s shoulder in order to silence her own sounds of approval; she begins a slow rhythm inside of Root, beginning almost tenderly. Root gasps, quiet and desperate. Shaw’s hips reinforce her hand, administering just the right pressure on Root’s clit with Shaw’s palm. Root groans, and pushes her own hips into the action, ruining Shaw’s rhythm but fulfilling her own wish of more friction.
Root comes quietly, clutching Shaw’s shoulder’s almost angrily, nailing digging into flesh as she shudders, breathless as her spine straightens and then relaxes because of the bursts of electricity. Shaw grins, extracting her fingers and sucking them slowly. Root turns her head from Shaw’s shoulder, staring at her.
“Thank you for saving me,” she whispers. Shaw turns to her; her lips still taste like Root, but still she leans forward and kisses her. Root kisses her back.
“Want some lunch now?”
“Okay.” Post-orgasm Root is compliant. Shaw decides she should remember this fact. For the future.