Work Text:
Root had never expected to find someone like Sameen Shaw. In her life of isolation, manipulation, and single-minded pursuit of technological transcendence, the idea of forming a genuine connection with another person had seemed not just unlikely but unnecessary. People were means to an end, tools to be used and discarded as needed.
Then came Shaw – fierce, honest, unapologetic Shaw – who saw the world in blacks and whites just as Root did, though for entirely different reasons. Shaw didn't feel emotions the way others did; Root simply chose to override hers in service of her goals. They were two sides of the same coin, damaged in complementary ways.
Root had been drawn to Shaw from the beginning, initially seeing her as a fascinating specimen, someone whose unique neurological wiring made her valuable to the Machine. But fascination had quickly evolved into something deeper, something Root hadn't anticipated.
Shaw didn't pretend. She didn't lie to make others comfortable or hide her true nature behind social niceties. She was exactly who she was, take it or leave it. And Root, who had spent her life pretending to be whoever she needed to be to get what she wanted, found this honesty intoxicating.
Their arrangement – because that's what Shaw insisted on calling it – had evolved organically over the months since Root's return from Japan. What started as occasional nights spent at Shaw's apartment had gradually shifted until Root was there more often than not when she was in New York.
She'd accumulated a toothbrush in Shaw's bathroom, a drawer of clothes in Shaw's dresser, her preferred brand of coffee in Shaw's kitchen. Shaw had grumbled about it, of course, but never actually asked Root to remove any of these encroachments.
They'd fallen into a rhythm, a routine that neither of them acknowledged out loud for fear of breaking whatever spell had allowed it to form. When Root was away on missions for the Machine, she called Shaw regularly – ostensibly to check in on team activities, but really just to hear her voice. When she returned, she went straight to Shaw's apartment, where Shaw would check her for injuries, feed her if necessary, and then welcome her back in the most physical way possible.
It was comfortable. It was consistent. It was the closest thing to a relationship Root had ever experienced.
And yet, there was still a barrier between them – an invisible line that Shaw wouldn't cross. They didn't talk about feelings or the future. They didn't define what they were to each other. Shaw still maintained that whatever was happening between them was just physical, just convenient, just temporary.
Root knew better, but she didn't push. She understood Shaw better than anyone, knew that pushing would only make her retreat. So Root was patient, letting Shaw set the pace, accepting whatever she was willing to give.
Until one night, after a particularly harrowing mission where Root had nearly been killed, something shifted.
They'd returned to Shaw's apartment in silence, Shaw radiating tension, Root too exhausted to attempt conversation. Shaw had methodically checked Root's injuries – a bullet graze on her arm, bruised ribs, various cuts and scrapes – cleaning and bandaging them with professional efficiency.
"You need to be more careful," Shaw said finally, securing the last bandage with more force than necessary. "That shot was too close."
Root smiled tiredly. "Worried about me, Sameen?"
She expected Shaw's usual denial, the familiar dance they did around any hint of emotional attachment. Instead, Shaw looked at her directly, something raw and unfamiliar in her eyes.
"Yes," Shaw admitted, the word coming out like it had been torn from her. "I was worried."
Root's smile faltered, caught off guard by the honesty. "I'm okay," she assured Shaw softly. "She wouldn't let anything happen to me."
"The Machine can't stop bullets, Root," Shaw countered, her voice tight. "And it was shooting at you. I saw it."
"But I'm here," Root reminded her, reaching out to touch Shaw's face. "I'm right here."
Shaw caught her wrist, holding it in place as she leaned into the touch ever so slightly. "This time," she said quietly. "But someday your luck will run out. Or the Machine will decide your survival isn't necessary for its plans."
The vulnerability in Shaw's voice was something Root had never heard before, something she'd never expected to hear. Shaw was afraid – not for herself, but for Root.
"Come here," Root murmured, tugging Shaw toward her on the bed.
Shaw came willingly, allowing Root to pull her close, to wrap arms around her in an embrace that was about comfort rather than desire. They stayed like that for a long time, Shaw's head tucked under Root's chin, their bodies pressed together in the quiet of the apartment.
"I can't lose you," Shaw whispered eventually, the words muffled against Root's collarbone. "I don't... I don't know what that would do to me."
Root's heart swelled painfully in her chest. This was as close to a declaration as she would ever get from Shaw, and it meant more than any flowery profession of love ever could.
"You won't lose me," Root promised, knowing it might be a lie but needing to say it anyway. "I'll always come back to you, Sameen."
Shaw pulled back slightly to look at her, eyes searching Root's face for something – reassurance, perhaps, or confirmation that Root understood the significance of what she'd just admitted.
Root leaned forward, pressing her lips to Shaw's in a kiss that was gentle, almost reverent – so different from their usual hungry, desperate encounters. Shaw responded in kind, her hands coming up to cradle Root's face with unexpected tenderness.
When they made love that night, it was slower, more deliberate than ever before. Shaw's usual efficiency gave way to something almost like worship, her hands and mouth exploring Root's body as if memorizing every inch. Root, in turn, poured everything she felt into each touch, each kiss – all the words she couldn't say, all the promises she couldn't make.
Afterward, as they lay tangled together in the darkness, Root traced patterns on Shaw's bare shoulder, gathering her courage.
"I love you," she said simply, quietly, not expecting a response.
Shaw tensed briefly, then relaxed again. She didn't speak for so long that Root thought she might be asleep, or pretending to be to avoid addressing the declaration.
But then Shaw shifted, turning to face Root in the dimness. "I know," she said softly.
Root smiled, recognizing the reference. "Did you just Han Solo me, Sameen?"
The corner of Shaw's mouth quirked up. "Maybe."
Root laughed quietly, pressing a kiss to Shaw's shoulder. "I'll take it."
Shaw's arm tightened around her waist. "I can't say it back. Not the way you want. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"I don't need you to," Root assured her. "I know how you feel. You show me every day."
Shaw studied her face in the darkness. "And that's enough for you?"
Root nodded, her smile genuine. "More than enough. You're more than enough, Sameen. Just as you are."
Something in Shaw's expression softened, a vulnerability that few people had ever been allowed to see. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against Root's in a gesture of intimacy that said more than words ever could.
They fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other's arms, the barriers between them lower than they'd ever been before.
From that night on, Root said "I love you" often – when leaving for missions, when returning home, when Shaw did something particularly thoughtful or particularly Shaw-like. She didn't say it expecting to hear it back; she said it because it was true, because she wanted Shaw to know she was loved exactly as she was.
And Shaw, in her own way, responded – not with words, but with actions. She started keeping Root's favorite foods in the apartment without being asked. She treated Root's injuries with a gentleness that belied her usual brusque manner. She called when Root was away, just to check in, to hear her voice.
Most tellingly, she stopped correcting people when they referred to Root as her girlfriend, or when Root called the apartment "home."
It wasn't a conventional relationship by any means. They still argued fiercely, still maintained their independence, still refused to plan too far into an uncertain future. But it was theirs, built on understanding and acceptance and a connection that defied easy categorization.
Root had never expected to find someone like Sameen Shaw. But now that she had, she couldn't imagine life without her. And judging by the way Shaw looked at her when she thought no one was watching, the feeling was entirely mutual.
Shaw had never been one for introspection. She didn't spend time analyzing her feelings (or lack thereof), dissecting her motivations, or questioning her choices. She acted, she reacted, she moved forward. Simple. Clean. Efficient.
But lately, she'd found herself doing something she'd never done before: reflecting on how things had changed. Specifically, how she had changed since Root had bulldozed her way into her life.
It had started with small things – allowing Root to use her first name without correction, tolerating her presence in her personal space, not immediately shooting down her flirtatious comments. These were concessions Shaw had made almost unconsciously, barely registering them as they happened.
Then came the bigger things – seeking out Root's company when it wasn't strictly necessary for a mission, checking in on her when she was injured, worrying (though she'd never use that word) when Root was away on solo missions for the Machine. These were harder to ignore, harder to explain away as mere tolerance or professional courtesy.
And now... now there were things Shaw couldn't explain at all within her usual framework of understanding herself. The comfort she felt when Root was nearby. The emptiness in her apartment when Root was away. The way she'd started keeping Root's favorite foods in her kitchen, making space in her closet for Root's clothes, adjusting her own sleep habits to accommodate Root's erratic schedule.
Most unsettling of all was the realization that she'd stopped thinking of her apartment as just hers. Somewhere along the line, it had become theirs – her and Root's shared space, their refuge from the chaos of their work.
Shaw wasn't naive or in denial. She knew what these changes signified, knew what others would call this evolution in their relationship. But putting labels on it felt wrong somehow, too simplistic to capture the complexity of what had developed between them.
Root, for her part, seemed content to let Shaw set the pace, never pushing for definitions or commitments. She'd declared her feelings – "I love you" had become a regular part of her vocabulary, dropped casually into conversations, whispered in the darkness of their bedroom, called out as she left for missions. She never demanded that Shaw say it back, never seemed disappointed when she didn't.
And yet, Shaw found herself wanting to give Root... something. Some acknowledgment of what she meant to her, some confirmation that this wasn't just convenience or habit or physical attraction.
The opportunity came unexpectedly, on a rare quiet evening at home. Root was working on her laptop, legs draped over Shaw's as Shaw cleaned her guns – a domestic scene that would have seemed laughably impossible to Shaw just a year ago.
"She wants us to check out a potential number tomorrow," Root said, not looking up from her screen. "Nothing urgent, just reconnaissance for now."
Shaw nodded, reassembling her SIG Sauer with practiced efficiency. "Fine. What time?"
"Afternoon should work. He'll be at his office until late." Root glanced up, a small smile playing at her lips. "Means we can sleep in."
Shaw rolled her eyes at Root's suggestive tone, but didn't object. After a moment of comfortable silence, she spoke again, keeping her voice casual.
"You should bring the rest of your stuff here."
Root's fingers stilled on her keyboard, her head tilting in that way that meant she was processing something unexpected. "The rest of my stuff?"
Shaw kept her eyes on her weapon, avoiding Root's gaze. "Yeah. No point in keeping things scattered across different safe houses when you're here most of the time anyway."
Root set her laptop aside, giving Shaw her full attention. "Are you asking me to move in with you, Sameen?"
Shaw finally looked up, meeting Root's eyes. "You basically already live here. I'm just saying you might as well make it official."
The smile that spread across Root's face was blinding in its intensity, a pure, unguarded joy that made something in Shaw's chest tighten uncomfortably.
"I'd like that," Root said simply, reaching out to touch Shaw's face. "Very much."
Shaw nodded once, then returned to her gun, trying to ignore the unfamiliar warmth spreading through her. "Good. That's... good."
Root watched her for a long moment, that smile still lingering. "I love you," she said softly, the words hanging in the air between them.
Shaw had heard those words from Root countless times by now, but something about this moment felt different – a threshold being crossed, a decision being made. She set down her gun carefully, considering her response.
"I know," she said finally, the familiar reply that had become their pattern.
But this time, she didn't stop there.
"I can't... I don't feel things the way you do," Shaw continued, the words coming with difficulty. "But whatever I can feel, whatever capacity I have for... this..." She gestured vaguely between them. "It's yours. All of it."
Root's eyes widened, a sheen of moisture making them shine in the soft light of the apartment. She moved closer, taking Shaw's face in her hands.
"That's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me," she whispered, pressing her forehead against Shaw's.
Shaw shifted uncomfortably, already regretting her moment of vulnerability. "Don't make it weird."
Root laughed softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Shaw's lips. "Wouldn't dream of it, sweetie."
And as Shaw kissed her back, she realized that somewhere along the line, Root had become the exception to every rule she'd ever set for herself. The exception to her aversion to physical contact, to her intolerance for pet names, to her insistence on personal space, to her rejection of emotional attachments.
The only exception. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.
Because in a world of chaos and danger, where tomorrow was never guaranteed, having that one exception – that one person who saw her, understood her, and accepted her exactly as she was – felt like something worth holding onto.