Warnings: A reference to self-harm. Also for unsafe erotic asphyxiation play, obviously do not recommend. Be safe, communication is essential.

Two pistols in hand, Root strode down the alley while dispersing a cover of bullets. She purposely let one magazine empty, using the other gun to shoot out the dominant shoulders of the two men that popped up from behind the dumpster at the clicking sound. She kicked away their guns with the toe of her boot before turning to her number. Today it was a measly looking man with an unfortunate habit of stealing from the wrong people.

The man scrambled to his feet, sending nervous glances between Root and the men prone on the pavement. He scurried off in the other direction; Root vacantly watched him struggle to vault over the chain link fence at the end of the alley. She waited until he was out of sight before relaxing the grip on her weapons. "Well, that wasn't very polite."

"Miss Groves?"

"He's gone, Harry. Everything's taken care of." She rolled her shoulders, enjoying the slight ache the cool spring afternoon brought to her otherwise long healed injuries. A tight-lipped smile came unbidden as Root felt a twinge in her left rotator cuff. Her favourite. The one left by Shaw. It was no coincidence that, while John liked to go for kneecaps, Root always went for the shoulder. What could she say; she was sentimental like that. "I'm turning you off now."

"Miss Gro—"

Root didn't hear the approach, received no warning save the shadow that settled over her own a nanosecond before an arm wrapped tight around her waist and another knocked her pistols to the ground. There was no space in her mind to hold the insignificant details - the fault of her lungs, the lack of response from muscles well honed to react- not when she was remembering this. The scent of vetiver and danger from drifting just a little too close, the feel of hard efficiency mixed with undeniably feminine softness... "Sameen?"

A low chuckle reached her good ear, "Did you miss me?" Like a flipped switch, she went slack.

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Her chest hurt as her breath came in stuttering heaves, not unlike an old car engine struggling to start.

494 days

since she'd been held even briefly, by Shaw, by anyone. Shaw seemed to hold onto Root for an infinite moment. Root wondered if she was holding her because she sensed the weakness in Root's limbs or for her own reasons. Knowing Shaw, probably the former, possibly an amalgamation of both. Shaw's caring had always taken shape in gestures rather than words, and the silence at Root's back brought forth a welcomed familiarity. Root wouldn't know what to do with a Shaw that wanted to talk things out.

Root had chosen her flat boots today, making Shaw the perfect height to tuck her chin into the crook of her neck. Part of Root wanted her to: she could feel the even exhale, Shaw's chin, circling, the barest graze tickling the skin exposed by her shirt. A larger part of her was terrified by the intimacy of it, by what it would do to her composure, that final card that brings the whole house down. It was this fear that finally gave her the strength to remove herself from Shaw's grasp. The woman released her without comment. If she noticed Root taking an extra step away before turning around, her expression didn't give it away. She just looked vaguely annoyed, and Root was struck by the rightness of it, of her.

Shaw's hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. It was longer and- by the strands that had escaped to frame her face- Root could see it was crudely cut. She'd probably taken scissors or a knife to it. She was thinner too, her black tank top exposing arms softened from her captivity. Even so, the lines of her biceps tensed and flexed as Shaw forced herself to remain still to Root's attentive gaze. She looked like an abstract art piece-the kind everyone pretends to understand but few actually appreciate-spots and lines of purple and blue in some areas and a slowly healing yellow painting every other inch of exposed skin. Shaw was, as she had always been, an alluring sight, even as the array of bruises made Root's trigger fingers twitch.

Root tried to find her voice. Maybe to question how or when she'd escaped, perhaps to slip in a suggestive comment like the old days, anything but continuing to linger in this speechless vulnerability. Root was grasping at threads attempting to stitch back together her usually thick skin of levity and innuendo... but the sutures wouldn't hold, bleeding raw emotion barely held back behind clenched teeth and -a touch too-wide eyes.

Salvation and damnation came in the form of a ringing payphone at the entrance to the alley. Root watched the confusion settle over Shaw's features as she eyed Root and the phone.

"I may have been out of the game for a while but I know what that means." Root did not care for the way Shaw scrutinized her, trying to fit the cracked and brittle pieces together as if they'd still form the Root she remembered. "You're the interface or whatever, since when do you get your marching orders the old fashioned way?"

"I never was much for marching, probably the reason my time as tenor saxophone in the OSU band was so short lived. Either that or because I wasn't technically a student." She leaned forward as if revealing a secret. "The first oboe was a relevant number."

"Root..."

Given the topic of conversation, Root only allowed herself to be momentarily distracted,

11,873 hours

since she'd heard her name spoken in that low, throaty warning tone.

"Since She calculated the risks and decided that I-," her voice stumbled over the emotion held captive in her throat, "-that we couldn't save you." Root didn't mention the fights. One-sided arguments in more ways than one: where Root spoke in raised tones to herself in the middle of a park or street- for all intents and purposes a woman gone mad-with nothing but static in response.

Root had always been willing to offer her life, but her god wouldn't let her take back the one thing Root wasn't willing to sacrifice. All the while knowing where Shaw was. Eventually Root's voice had gone raw, and then it wasn't there at all- a hardly noticed loss in her grief- after which there was just the silence. Root had gone from bad code to managed code; her every move choreographed by her god. It had once given her purpose, a sense of fulfillment even, but that was before.

Blind faith and an existence as the right hand and mouthpiece of a higher power can only sustain you as long as you want nothing for yourself. Oh, and how she thought she had. She'd boasted of her impending transcendence to the psychiatrist at Stoneridge. She'd seen herself as awakened: a nirvana achieved through giving all of herself to her god. She had been a fool. As Root worked to fulfill Her aims, she had been unknowingly giving parts of herself to another. Her delusion fell apart after Shaw was taken. For if she had truly given all that she was to the Machine, Sameen wouldn't have been able to take so much of Root with her. She wouldn't have still been tainted by the same broken, ill designed humanity that had watched her best friend drive off to her death in a dead end Texan town.

A pitiful groan tore Root from her dark musings. She crossed back over to the dumpster, bending to one knee to send each of her number's would-be attackers off to dreamland with a quick jab to the side of the neck with the heel of her palm. She looked up at Shaw, a coy grin burgeoning in reaction to the interest and heat she found in Shaw's eyes. The brachial stun had been one of the first moves John had taught her when they'd started training together.

(One evening, at a cafe they'd stopped in following a rather harrowing number, John had informed her that she needed to: 'eat more than a toddler, get better at sensing movement in her periphery and learn how to fight without any aids –regardless of how creative she could be in that arena.' Her initial assent was half due to her surprise at getting a full non-case related sentence from the man (with clauses and all), and half in reluctant respect to the biting- but well aimed- criticism.)

"I had a little downtime after everything." Root waved her hand vaguely in Shaw's direction as she rose to her feet, ignoring the responding eye roll. "Harold reached out when John decided to play damsel in distress, leading to a rather complicated rescue involving a blowtorch, a half dozen pipe bombs, and a few ocelots borrowed from the Central Park Zoo." Root smiled, pushing a contrived lightness into her tone. "I stayed to work the numbers after that, but no longer as Her interface."

She didn't register her right hand rising to indulge in her nervous tick of scratching along the scar of her stapedectomy until her wrist was tightly gripped and yanked away. Her hair was pushed aside with only slightly more care, which quickly evaporated as Shaw found what she was looking for. The hand around her wrist tightened as Shaw spoke slowly through bared teeth, "What did you do to yourself?"

The accusing tone reminded Root of just how much she preferred Shaw's method of dealing with things. It wasn't the pity Harold lobbed her way when he first spotted the three long lacerations that started behind her right ear and extended a third of the way down her neck, and it was better than John's quiet disapproval that disquietingly reminded Root of a few teachers she'd had another lifetime and name ago.

"I may have simplified the order of events a tad." Her lips drew a soft and tremulous smile at Shaw's 'no shit' face. "I was too otherwise preoccupied to deal with the numbers after helping John. Eventually, I jumped in when things became dire again." She moved back as soon as Shaw released her hand, her hair falling to cover the scars with a small, calculated flick of her head. "I believe it involved the Brotherhood, or perhaps that was the time after that. Her little Scooby gang is awfully good at getting themselves in trouble."

"You're a part of that Scooby gang." Her eyes narrowed. "Wait, who's Shaggy?"

Root's smirked, her nose scrunching up slightly as she pretended to consider the question, "Oh, I don't know. Loves to eat, prefers the company of a dog—"

"I am not Shaggy." Shaw frowned-that adorably petulant one that never failed to rouse something in Root. "And that's not the point anyway, you're a part of this screwed up team."

Shaw stared her down as Root began to circle her, testing Shaw's boundaries to make her be the one to enforce distance. An only slightly underhanded trick Root fell back on when feeling particularly vulnerable. That Shaw always looked so enticing- all rigid and agitated-when she did it, well, that was just a bonus. "I wasn't though. And eventually She started to become more proactive in luring me back."

"She-" Shaw ground her teeth for a moment, looking supremely frustrated at slipping into Root's preference of gendering an AI, "-the Machine talked to you, you mean."

"After months of quiet suddenly my head was filled with Her words again. Numbers both relevant and irrelevant, far more information than She had ever given me before. Everything... but the one thing I asked of Her." Root purposely avoided looking at Shaw as she whispered the words, her eyes landing on the still ringing payphone instead. "A mission-critical system," Root huffed out a laugh, but it sounded bitter even to her own ear, "She'd run all the options. Without me playing my part," Root waved a hand as if the whole of the world could fit in between the ridges on her fingertips, "everything fell apart."

"That must have been good for your ego." It was said lightly with only a hint of bite-because even Sameen's teasing wasn't without its teeth-and yet Root felt her spine straighten, lungs corroding with words that would not be stifled.

"That I had to let go of my mission to find you or else Samaritan would win?" Root's voice came out in a hiss, finally turning to meet Shaw's gaze. "That Harold, John, Lionel and even the dog would die?" Her breathing was ragged not unlike after a good fight or great sex, although this lacked the satisfaction that came with either. "I never wanted that."

Unsurprisingly, Shaw only gained confidence in the face of her anger. She crossed the small distance Root had set between them, her response calm and certain, "You wanted to be the martyr, not the 'messiah'."

Root couldn't help the flinch to the unspoken allusion to that night at the NYSE. She composed herself, her anger turning cold. Of course Root had wanted it to be her sacrifice that allowed the rest to make it. Though, not as a martyr. The accusation may have held truth that first time during the blackout, or even perhaps in the hotel as she'd dropped her guns and baited Samaritan to a game of cat and mouse. But not that night, not with all of their lives on the line, not with Sameen's life at stake. Was it so very wrong of her to wish, to need, it not be her that was left behind this time?

"What I wanted didn't matter anymore. I became a soldier in the Machine's war again. But I was no longer Hers."

Root had become accustomed to the occasional tinnitus that came with her implant, so it took her a moment to realize it was the payphone, still going on what must be Her fourth or fifth round of calls. It felt like moving through drying cement, but Root managed to step back-sullenly amused that now she was the one always retreating- and pass Shaw without another word. She paused only long enough to take a steadying breath before making her way to the payphone. The Machine's message was short,Police inbound. Go To IRT Station.

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They used the Chinatown entrance. Shaw was easily appeased by the explanation that it was just across the street from her favourite sandwich shop, but truthfully it was the furthest entrance from where they started that Root could rationalize. She didn't want come back here. At least the smell of Sameen's Beatrice Lillie sandwich— half of which had been devoured by the time they reached the platform— blocked out most of the less than pleasing smells that went with their old underground hideaway.

Root hesitated at the end of the tunnel until Shaw pushed past her with an annoyed huff half muffled by meat and peppers. Shaw had finished her sandwich by the time she was back in Root's sight. She wasn't looking around, showing little interest in what was once her home base and later her prison. Rather, Shaw seemed intent on watching her. Root attempted to look unaffected, but she could not help but wonder how much was showing on her face.

Could Shaw tell that Root had demanded that they move to a new base of operations before she would work the numbers again? That she hadn't cared how difficult it had been for Her to obtain a new location that would be safe from Samaritan? The signs of their time there had been removed, but Root could still see it all. Like the aftereffects of thermal radiation the shadows remained, haunting her.

With a glance into the subway car, she saw the mattress they'd gotten for Shaw; the clothing laid out with military precision on the blue plastic seats and the perfectly arranged armory taking up the table to the left of Harold's tinkering station. The car bisected by the extension cord Shaw had demanded so that she could plug in the mini fridge John had brought her. The half drunk bottle of bourbon next to her knife collection: another appeasement. Harold had taken credit for the gesture at Root's say-so, but given the man had no means of knowing Shaw's favourite and rarely indulged in label, Root suspected she knew it came from her. If she did, she didn't comment on it—though, she was a bit less testy the next time Root had popped in to visit between rotating identities.

Exiting the subway car, Root's eyes found Shaw's without thought. The woman was leaning with marked nonchalance against the pillar across from the car, still just, watching. Root didn't know what to say or do. It felt similar to that strange and foreign urge to jump when standing on the edge of a skyscraper. She wasn't sure if Shaw was meant to represent the skyscraper or the ground in that analogy. Root drifted a step closer, and paused again. She gnawed on her bottom lip for a few moments, watching Shaw's eyes follow the move though her stance and gaze remained impassive.

"So, how long since you've used this place? It looks even worse than when I was holed up here."

Root blinked, halting briefly before continuing her slow advance, "Are we really going to do small talk?" she tsked under her breath, tilting her head with an easy grin, "That's not like you, Sameen." Shaw's eyes widened just a hair with the decreasing distance between them. There had been a safety in it before—on a spring afternoon in a New York City alley with two unconscious bad guys at their feet. It was different now. Root knew they both felt that.

She stopped just as she crossed into the very tangible bubble of personal space Sameen liked to exude. Root placed one hand against the pillar, palm flat just to the right of Sameen's head. And then she waited. She did not have to wait long.

"Oh, fuck it." There was an exasperated sigh and then two hands were fisting the fabric of Root's shirt and pulling her close. It was softer than their last kiss, and through the pleasure of it, Root wondered what message Sameen was trying to convey. Those small, calloused hands sliding up with surprising gentleness to cup her cheeks; lips that nipped rather than bit and gave as much as they took. It wasn't a promise. Root thought it might be an apology, and the thought was like a lance through every nerve in her body. It was too much and not nearly enough.

Root pulled the hands away from her face—

She couldn't have a repeat of what happened in the alley, and if Sameen continued to touch her with such tenderness Root may just fall apart. And while it would almost be worth it for the deer in headlights look she could perfectly picture in her mind's eye, she'd filled her quota for unbridled vulnerability for the moment.

—and slammed them over Sameen's head and against the pillar. There was a weakly suppressed hiss and a beat of hesitation as Root pulled back. She smirked at the sight of dark eyes and blown pupils. The eyes in question narrowed and her nostrils flared, but surprisingly she didn't fight Root's hold. Her height was an advantage and she utilized it, yanking Sameen's wrists high enough to put her on her tiptoes, and the angry growl the move elicited was a balm to her soul. It had been far too long since she'd had the pleasure of Sameen's wrath. She hoped to endure more of it -but not just yet- so she shoved Sameen harder against the pillar, relishing the hint of surprise that danced across her face. Oh, Root was putting her training with John to good use. Her naturally thin frame had grown wiry and was as unyielding as the stone at Sameen's back.

If Sameen was in tiptop fighting shape, she could most likely still take her, and the temptation was there in her eyes. Root almost wanted her to try. There's so much more she was capable of doing to Sameen now; she didn't even need any toys,although, maybe later. They're close enough to breathe each other in, and Root blamed the slight lightheadedness on increasing carbon dioxide levels. She wasn't sure what she was doing. Was this what it was like to ask for permission? Finally, with slightly fluttering eyelids, Sameen arched, her back acting as one long lure. It wasn't submission; it was much better.

They met in a hard collision of teeth. Root maneuvered both of Sameen's small wrists into one of her hands, nails digging deep in warning before using her freed hand to shove the dark tank top up over Sameen's sports bra. She ran her fingers under the elastic hem for a moment before that too was pushed up. She didn't bother to take them off completely lest Sameen utilize the opportunity to flip their positions.

Root slowed, fingers barely grazing skin as she took in the lovely view Sameen presented. She was a vision of confliction. Sameen's breathing was even, a testament of self control, but hardened nipples and the circular contraction and release of abdominal muscles spoke of a wanting. Root's eyes fell shut as her teeth scraped down the line of Sameen's throat. It was the best high, being wanted by Sameen Shaw.

On top of the colourful bruises, the defined planes of her torso were riddled with scars in various stages of healing. Some Root could place, given what her own research -and later the Machine- had provided on Shaw. Others, including one fascinating crescent shaped mark along her left hip, Root could only guess. But there were two she knew intimately. Her knuckles brushed back and forth across the faintly raised skin as Root tore into Shaw's lip. Sameen made an appreciative sound deep in her throat, her kiss turning even rougher, and Root savored the taste, coppery and yet as sweet as cherry wine.

Even if Root's career hadn't prompted her to acquire sufficient knowledge of human anatomy— not the least of which included the healing rates of human tissue in reaction to different types of trauma— she couldn't mistake these marks. The first 9mm bullet struck between ribs 7 and 8, closely followed by another from the same sig sauer P229 between the 4th and 5th. It had played on a loop in Root's mind: between Her numbers and the pleas of bad code that could never tell Root what she wanted to know.

Root pulled away from the kiss, her lips quirking slightly as Sameen's partly stifled groan at the loss blossomed into a moan as her nails carved around the diameter of the scars. With a swell of possessive ardor Root dipped her head and wrapped her lips around the closest of the circular scars, biting down hard as she held Sameen's wrists as high over her head as she could—sucking against skin stretched tight over her ribcage. She could feel the stuttering gasp against her lips before it reached her good ear, and it drove her to sink her teeth in more, until she could feel the telling heat of a developing bruise under her lips.

Root's tongue soothed the indentations left by her teeth as her fingers released the button on Sameen's pants. They were ill fit and slid from her thighs down to her ankles with just the slightest provocation from the toe of Root's boot. Sameen's breathing finally started to grow heavy and uneven as Root stroked her over her underwear. Between the twitching of Sameen's muscles and the wet heat beneath her fingers, Root hazarded she could get her off just like this. But it wouldn't be nearly gratifying enough for either of them. She wanted to give Sameen an orgasm better than anything a steak joint could whip up.

For all the brutality of her affection, once she entered Sameen it was with maddening slowness. Innuendo aside, this was a moment Root hadn't expected to ever experience before that night at the stock exchange and certainly not after. As Sameen bucked impatiently into her, Root took the underside of her left breast into her mouth and bit harshly in reprisal. Shaw was putting force against the hand around her wrists again, not enough to actually break free but certainly enough to make a point. When Root simply continued her drawn out pace, Sameen protested by kicking away the pants circling her ankles and wrapping a leg around the back of Root's upper thighs, heel digging in. She was trying to control Root's rhythm, to make her hurry things along.

712,409 minutes

Root has waited. She has counted them all. Numbers had always made sense to her, had given order to a world both cruel and cold. But these numbers tormented her. An ever growing disconnect from what almost was, forever adding weight to the doubt that it never would be. Sameen could wait. The new angle did allow her to press in deeper, and she easily slipped a third finger inside Sameen and curled, nipping admonishingly at her jaw as another moan was smothered before it could reach her still functional ear. She was now holding a good portion of Sameen's weight and the muscles of her back were tight from the strain.

Something shifted and Root felt it pulse through her. Her eyes rose to meet Sameen's and she did not understand what she saw there. She was ready to tease. To draw this out. She was primed to bite and scratch and bleed. She was not prepared for that gentle heat that carved deeper than nails or bullets.

"Root—"

An exhilarating rage overtook Root as her hand wound tight around Sameen's throat. No. She didn't get to do this now. The hand, slick with arousal, slipped slightly until Root's nails dug in with just enough force to spur her blood to well. Sameen's hands broke free of their hold, but rather than reaching for the hand around her own neck, one twisted into Root's hair, a fist of silken tresses, and the other buried into her shoulder— nails either unconsciously or intentionally— pressing just over the bullet shaped scar Sameen had gifted her. Root relished the way it stung. She hoped Sameen broke the skin, wished for it to bleed anew. Her now free hand returned to the warmth between Sameen's legs, spreading her labia gently before three fingers pushed in to resume their deliberate pace.

Reddened incisors furthered Root's attempt at splitting Sameen's bottom lip in two; an obstinately creased brow over eyes that burned dark as gunpowder even as they clouded with reluctant tears... to call Sameen beautiful in this moment was inadequate. Insulting even. There was nothing that could be added or taken away that would be an improvement in Root's eyes. Where Root had spent most of her life seeing people as bad code, Sameen was the epitome of elegant code. And it was with reverence that Root watched her eyes begin to glaze over, her leg loosening its hold around her thighs.

Just as she felt the telltale clenching around her fingers, Root relaxed her grip and leaned in, "Don't you dare die on me again." Whether it was the threat or the fingers still moving within her that threw her over that precipice Root couldn't say, but she savored Sameen's hoarse groan, a desperate sound of a body racked by both climax and much needed air.

42,744,540 seconds

since Root had breathed this easily. She was surprised to find herself almost as out of breath as Sameen. Her muscles quaked in protest to the exquisite pressure of holding her up against the pillar all this while. The hand in Root's hair was relaxing. It moved with false aimlessness to her ear, fingertips just barely tracing first over the nearly smooth line from her stapedectomy then over the newer, more jagged ones. Ones Root had inflicted with her own nails one dark, bitter night when her mind was far too loud to possibly hold another- least of which the god that had betrayed her trust.

Sameen's fingertips reached the edge of her scars to slide down the line of her throat, tapping in rhythm with her pulse just above her carotid artery, "No more being stupid." A million lines and innuendos flittered across Root's mind in reaction to the rough quality to Sameen's voice before the words sank in, before the care they held could gain traction in her thoughts. The child of a poor, ill mother Root knew well the spectrum of kindness. She'd catalogued their varying shades in the eyes of both elders and peers from a very young age.

But now, with Sameen debauched and panting as she glared up at her, she could feel the shape of it. It didn't sit heavy in the back of her throat like pity or guilt, and it didn't press tight along her lower back like duty. It was barely familiar, like a long forgotten melody. Fondness. Root attempted to contort her astounded, silly grin into something a bit more smug.

Whether or not she was successful, Shaw still seemed to believe her deserving of the swift punch she delivered to Root's stomach, just hard enough to draw out a gasp. She pushed them both off of the pillar, one hand slipping to wrap around the back of Root's neck and the other hooking behind the buckle of her belt as she led Root backwards towards the bench. Root's calves hit the corner before she was roughly shoved down. Amply distracted by Shaw settling down and bracketting Root's thighs with her own, she missed the sliding snap of the handcuff securing her left wrist to the side of the bench.

With a notable smirk Shaw paid no further attention to the handcuffs, but Root also noticed she didn't get off of her lap. Instead she gripped Root's chin firmly and yanked her head to the side again to further scrutinize her neck, "You still have your implant."

Root shrugged the best she could within Shaw's tight hold. Her mind was trying to catch up; what with the handcuffs and the straddling she had seen this moment heading somewhere else, but then, Sameen always did enjoy throwing her off balance, "She may need her interface again before this is all over."

"Okay," Shaw drew the word out as she moved Root's chin back to catch her eyes, "but for now you aren't the Machine's."

There was something bordering on possessive about the way Shaw held her still. She'd seen this in Sameen many times: around food, weapons, cars, a blowtorch, even Bear, but never a person. Never her. Root raised her eyebrows and made an attempt at coming off flirtatious but fell short. Her tone was too tentative, too sincere, "Then whose am I?"

The response was as gruff as it was resolute; "I thought maybe you could try belonging to yourself for a while." Shaw had let go of her chin, but she was still holding her gaze as if daring her to object.

"Oh Sameen," there's a wistfulness in Root's tone, innocence was not something she would have ever thought to call Shaw, but it seemed to fit now. Everyone had skeletons in their closet, but Root knew what it was to cohabitate with the monster that consumed them. "I did that for most of my life. A destructive force with dubious morality at best running free," her nose scrunched up in self-deprecation, "didn't work out well for anyone."

Shaw was dissecting her every facial twitch, her forehead creasing in growing annoyance to whatever she did or did not find, "You saying you need to be caged? We tried that one."

"Kinky but no. What I need—" Root's eyes turned serious even as her smile remained playful, and she could tell Sameen noticed by the way she stilled over her, "—all I want, is a tether."

"And what exactly does that mean?"

Root didn't know how to ask for this. She had never done so before, had never intended...but she remembered that fondness enriching the already warm brown of Sameen's eyes. She could see the shades of it even now, with Shaw glaring expectantly down at her. Could feel it in how she waited for Root to find the words, to find how to put in a way that might mean something to Shaw.

"I want to sit across from you from time to time and watch you devour a truly impressive amount of food in the most vicious manner possible." Root's free hand slipped up to squeeze Shaw's right thigh, "I want to flirt with you and watch you get all frustrated until you look like you want to shoot me-" she tilted her head slightly to the side as her smile grew bolder, "-again."

"I want sex," the thighs around her own tightened in reaction to her candor, "lots of sex," she hummed deep in her throat, "with zip ties and clamps and maybe that sharp little sidewinder you like to keep in your right boot —"

"—And gags."

Her smirk turned truly salacious at the deadpan interjection, "Whatever you want, sweetie."

Shaw rolled her eyes at the endearment, but her bloodied lips were quirked into a small grin and her eyes had gone very dark.

"And I want to work numbers with you. Blow some things up, shoot some people, and you can help to keep me shooting the right people."

Root knew what she was. What she was before the Machine, and what she gladly did and would have done to get Sameen back. But this world of battling gods also required monsters to fight other monsters. And if she wasn't to be put down or back in a cage, then she needed to be put to use. Where she could be what she was, the right way. And for all of Shaw's self-perceived faults (and her admittedly general dislike of people), she'd always had a better grasp on what that was than Root.

"That's all?" Shaw's tone was dubious but there was an edge of anticipation in it, like the look she got when Root would show up offering dangerous liaisons that promised bloodshed and very fast modes of transport.

"Yeah Sameen, that's good enough for me."

Shaw watched her for a long moment, long enough that Root had to suppress the need to squirm under the weight of it. Finally, she let out a sigh. It sounded put upon, but her mouth was doing that small, pursed 'I'm smiling and you know it but don't you dare comment on it thing,'

"Whatever. Not like it matters. We're most likely going to die on this stupid crusade anyway." Root didn't even bother trying to contain her smile this time. It lasted until Sameen smothered it with an insistent press of lips and teeth, dexterous fingers reaching to unbuckle the belt over her jeans.

Author's Note: A million thanks to Kay for the support in the editing of this fic.