so poi has ruined me. i've never been an avid writer for the show, but it's continued to hurt me over and over again (read: carter, root, and john all died and so did i). I've been slowly chipping away at this work for over a year, and it's not even done...but i just had to say that even though poi hurt me, root and shaw's relationship was the absolute greatest thing to ever come from it. so obviously i wrote a (loosely based) "Dear Santa" AU bc I'm amy acker trash and cheesy christmas movie adaptions are my thing.

fair warning: my timeline is shit. also i've taken a loooot of liberties with this au. as in: everyone's queer, thank u for your time.

"Christmas time again, Harry," Samantha Groves—better known as Root—says mischievously, swinging the shopping bag in her arm with each lazy step, her movements purposely slow so her companion doesn't have to strain himself to keep up. "Is there anything in particular you're wishing for?"

"The one thing I want I'll never get," Harold Finch replies stoically as he limps beside her.

Root is surprised he's taking the bait. "Oh? And what's that?" she asks.

"For you to stop calling me Harry," Harold says, and he winces as he says it, like it's physically painful to say the nickname. "I really think that name is quite unprofessional. Harold is a much more respectable name, and I'd prefer it if you called me as such."

Root tilts her head playfully. "Harry," she says cheekily, "just because you're getting old doesn't mean you have to be boring."

Harold glares at her, then, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "I really don't see why I keep putting myself through shopping trips with you," he says after a moment.

"It's because you love me." Root beams at him, slowing to a complete stop in front of their destination. "Okay, here's the boring suit store. I don't know why you'd come here; you already have lots of suits."

"I'm picking one up for John," Harold tells her.

"Oh, the boyfriend," Root says, automatically getting it.

"The friend," Harold stresses, giving her his best don't-push-me look.

Root sighs. "You never let me have any fun," she says, pouting. At Harold's unimpressed stare, she cracks a smile. "I live to tease, Harry, you know that by now. Now go get a suit for the big lug if you want. I'll go to the coffee place across the street and get us some drinks while you do."

"I don't drink coffee," Harold reminds her as he opens the door to the suit store.

"I know," Root says, giving him an even wider smile. "Have some faith in me."

Harold raises his eyebrows at Root suspiciously before he enters the store, clearly faithless in her ability to remember he drinks Sencha green tea when it's cold (with only one sugar). Really, one would think he'd be more trusting, considering Root's been his friend for years ("Feels like eons," Harold likes to complain when he has it in him to joke).

Root enters the coffee shop and orders Finch's tea and a latte for herself. The place is warm and cozy, with a lit Christmas tree in the corner and the smell of cinnamon, coffee, and gingerbread lingering in the air, so Root takes a seat at a table by a window to wait for Harold. She looks out the window, watching the bustle of people doing their Christmas shopping, and admires the few snowflakes already drifting from the sky. New York in the winter is cold, but it's definitely one of her favorite times of the year.

"Senecha green tea and caramel latte for...Root?" comes a tentative call.

Root smiles at the flustered barista as she goes to take both drinks; she isn't fazed by the barista's hesitance, because her prefered name always gets that reaction. It doesn't annoy her anymore, though, because anything is better than getting the name "Samantha" directed her way.

Outside, a mailman is stuffing letters into a satchel from a mailbox, struggling to keep them from flying away in the breeze. A woman walks by the coffee shop, lingering by the door as if contemplating going in, but ultimately moving on. Across the street, Root catches sight of Harold's short, limping figure opening the suit store's door, and she decides to meet him halfway.

The mailman is hurrying away by the time Root opens the coffee shop's doors, so as Root catches sight of a wet letter kept on the floor only by the falling snow, she is unsuccessful in getting his attention as she swivels around and yells, "Hey, wait, you forgot one—"

She is cut off by a voice that sounds behind her.

"Saman—Root," Harold amends as he hobbles in her direction, having just crossed the street, "what are you doing?"

Root watches the mailman go and shrugs, nonchalant. "Nothing," she says, and she hands Harold his tea. "One sugar in it, as usual."

"Thank you, I suppose," Harold says, balancing his cup as he fixes the bagged suit in his arms. "Shall we go?"

"Of course—wouldn't want to keep tall, dark, and dreamy waiting," Root says, winking.

Harold starts to walk away in exasperation. Root starts to follow, but not before she scoops the letter off the ground and resolves to drop it off in the nearest mailbox before it becomes a soggy mess on the floor.

.

.

.

"Look, it's snowing!" Genrika Zhirova exclaims excitedly, her nose pressed up against the window of the car. "Can we pleeeease stop by the park and play?"

"No way, kid; I just escaped the hell of anger management. I'm going home to drink until I pass out," Sameen Shaw says as she makes a rather sharp turn into their street. She pauses and says, "Forget you heard me say that."

Gen sighs, disappointed. "Can we go tomorrow?" she asks hopefully.

"Maybe." Shaw drives into the driveway in front of their house abruptly, tires squealing, before she slams the brake forcefully, making Gen's small body rush forward (but kept mostly in place by the seat belt).

"Ow," Gen mutters at the hard jostle. "Mom, your driving sucks."

"Who taught you that word?" Shaw says, turning around to glare at her daughter.

"Driving?" Gen asks innocently.

"Don't be a smart-ass, Gen."

"That was a bad word," Gen points out. "The word 'sucks' isn't."

Shaw glowers at Gen a moment longer. "Well, don't insult my driving," she settles, knowing that she, herself, was probably the culprit of teaching Gen any bad words ("sucks" isn't even bad, for an ten-year-old to be saying, but still, Shaw doesn't want the kid getting wrong impressions early on).

"Okay," Gen mumbles, unbuckling her seatbelt. "What are we having for dinner?" she asks as she and her mother exit the car, Shaw slamming both their doors forcefully behind her.

"I'm having vodka. You're having macaroni."

"The good kind, or the boxed kind?" Gen asks, suspicious, as they walk to the front door.

"Let me get halfway through my dinner and I'll decide," Shaw replies as she opens the door.

.

.

.

The letter never gets placed in a mailbox.

Root gets a frantic phone call from Hanna on her way to the post office, and she ends up having to say goodbye to Harold early before rushing off to go meet her (misguided) best friend, who is currently sitting in front of Root's apartment with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a single rose in the other.

"I'm a mess," Hanna confesses as Root arrives.

Root smirks. "When aren't you?" she says, and she lets Hanna in.

For the next hour, Hanna complains about her failed date, and how her parents have been pushing her to already settle down; Hanna is just shy of thirty-one, and as far as her parents are concerned, is an old maid destined to die alone.

"You should just marry me, Samantha," Hanna begs, clearly drunk off her half of the whiskey bottle.

Root tries to ignore the Samantha part and teases, "Please, you couldn't handle me."

Hanna just collapses on Root's couch, bottle still in hand, groaning. "Just once I'd like to do something that would please them, you know? They're always on me over something, and it drives me insane!"

"Parents do that," Root agrees, laying on the carpet beside the couch, her half of the whiskey bottle (which is in a thermos) still mostly full. "All of them do that, really."

"Yours don't," Hanna says with a pout, taking another swig of her bottle. "And you barely have anything going for you! You're almost thirty years old, you work as a technology person or something, and your love life is basically nonexistent!"

Root frowns, taking a healthy gulp of her whiskey at that. "Hey, this is your pity party, not a talk-shit-about-the-best-friend-who-didn't-make-you-go-home-to-your-empty-apartment party," she reminds her friend. "And I do too have plenty going for me!"

"Honey, you're hot, but you're twenty-nine years old," Hanna scoffs, waving her bottle in the air (and dripping a few drops of whiskey onto Root's forehead). "You aren't staying that age forever."

"Um, I think I'm looking pretty well, thanks," Root jokes, wiping the stray whiskey off her skin. "And...I'm actually doing better for myself, you know. I got a promotion, so no longer am I a random techie for the college, but one of the main consultants."

"Bo-ring," Hanna trills, finally swallowing the last of her whiskey in one gulp. "I don't care about your computers and shit! What about your love life? Don't tell me it's that old, limp-y, four-eyed guy I saw you with last week."

Root frowns. "That's Harold," she says. "He's a friend."

"Is he into you? Because could help your rep," Hanna says. "You know, about the whole love-life-being-nonexistent thing."

"He's not into me," Root scoffs. "He's gay."

A pause. "I could marry a gay guy," Hanna finally says. "Is he single?"

Root finally starts to snicker; drunk Hanna is pretty hilarious. "Not sure that's how it works, but nice try," she says.

"Whatever," Hanna fires back. "Now...your love life. Go on, spill."

Root hesitates, because really, what does she have to say? She hasn't had a steady relationship in her life in years. She's gone on a few dates here and there, mostly with women (and those she had gone on with men, Hanna had insisted on arranging, because Root is still a lesbian). Root can flat-out admit her love life isn't so hot, but as Hanna sighs loudly in an universal I-knew-it way, Root snaps.

"I'm making a resolution," Root blurts out.

"It's not New Year's," Hanna supplies unhelpfully.

"I'm making a resolution," Root continues anyway, "to find someone by Christmas."

Hanna tries to scramble up into a sitting position, but her drunkeness results in her half-falling off the couch in an effort to stare Root down. "You're kidding," Hanna says, and when Root shakes her head, Hanna stares at her in disbelief. "That's actually pretty go-getting. And unlike you."

"Well, I'm going to do it," Root says firmly. "Then you'll be the only one with a nonexistent love life."

Hanna groans. "Rude," she whines, before she drops completely off the couch and then proceeds to pass out into a deep sleep before she can even challenge Root's declaration.

Root stays on the floor, occasionally sipping her whiskey, and she decides that she is way over her head. She doesn't even know where to start with the whole find-someone-before Christmas. Christmas is in three weeks; she doesn't know how she is going to pull this off. With a sigh, she gets up off the floor and heads to her room to change out of her coat and wet, snowed-on jeans—if she's going to stay up and worry, she might as well do it in pajamas.

But as she takes off her coat, she suddenly remembers the letter tucked in its pocket. Hoping its reciever doesn't need it right away, she slips it out and carefully scans the front. She is hit all at once in worry—it's not a business letter, or an important piece of a mail, but a Santa letter. Root only thinks about it for two seconds before she rips it open; she's a curious type, and worse case scenario, all she'll have to do is repackage the letter.

Dear Santa,

Thank you for camera you gave me last year. Mom says I should always say thank you when I get gifts, even if she doesn't do that all the time. I really liked it. I'm becoming a better spy (but don't tell Mom that). This year, what I really want the most is a girlfriend (or boyfriend, maybe) for my Mom. She's always angry all the time (more than usual), and she has to keep going to anger meetings at work because she gets really mad when people die. She says it's better than feeling nothing, but they don't think so. I just want someone that will help her turn the volume way up for her feelings. I don't remember the last time I saw her smile.

Sincerely (I learned this word in school),

Genrika Shaw (or Zhirova, but I like Shaw better, even if Mom won't let me keep it)

Root takes one long, hard look at the letter and immediately calls Harold.

"Ms. Groves, you do realize it's nearly ten at night, correct?" Harold asks tiredly.

"Harry, I need your help," is all Root says in return, and she starts to grin widely as soon as she hears Harold's tired giving in.

.

.

.

"You write your, uh, Santa letter yet?" Shaw asks Gen nonchalantly as she slides a plate of (good) mac and cheese across the table.

"Yup," Gen says, proudly taking a forkful of the cheesy noodles. "It's my best wish yet."

"You going to tell me what that is?" Shaw asks, eyebrows raised.

"No. It's a surprise."

"I don't get to know what my own daughter wants for Christmas? You know, other parents have the opposite of this problem," Shaw says, sitting down in the chair across from Gen's.

"You have to wait 'till Christmas," Gen informs her mother.

Shaw rolls her eyes. "Man, you're a weird kid," she says, but there's something to the way she says it—like there could be a hint of affection, somehow—that makes Gen smile anyway.

"What do you want for Christmas, Mom?" Gen asks after a few moments of quiet eating (well, her own quiet eating—Shaw's just gulping down her vodka drink like it's water).

"Eh, probably a better kid," Shaw says with a shrug.

"Hey!" Gen giggles, flicking a piece of macaroni across the table.

Shaw doesn't even acknowledge that it's a joke, merely swallowing the last of her drink and getting up to make herself another. "Make sure you go to bed early," she says. "You have school tomorrow."

"Only for one more week until Christmas vacation starts," Gen says excitedly.

"Joy," Shaw grumbles, pouring a bigger amount of vodka into her cup.

Gen keeps eating, but after a moment, asks, "Are you going to be sad, Mom?"

"Why? 'Cause I have to deal with you at home for three weeks? Yeah," Shaw replies.

"Moooom," Gen complains, "can't you answer me seriously?"

Shaw moves into the living room, which is in plain sight of the kitchen, and drops on the couch. "You know I'm not wired for this kind of stuff, Gen," she says after a moment. "Let's just say I'm...dealing with it."

Gen quietly finishes the rest of her dinner, and doesn't say another word.

That night, when Gen is drifting off to sleep, and Shaw stands in the doorway of her room, silent but observant, Shaw finally says it: "You know I don't blame you, right?"

Gen sleepily says, "Huh?"

Shaw shakes her head. "Nothing. Go to sleep."

"Goodnight, Mom."

"'Night, Gen."

.

.

.

"What was so urgent that you absolutely had to meet so early in the morning for?" Harold asks, irritably, even though Root knows in another half hour he would have been up anyway (not outside her house, but it's not like she lives far away).

"This," Root says without preamble, holding out the Santa letter.

Harold reads it, and then looks up, raising both eyebrows. "I hope you're planning on returning this."

"I can't! I found it yesterday, and I made my resolution—it's like fate!"

Harold stares for all of two seconds. "I cannot decipher anything you've just said," he says, "but for my sake, I am going to pretend you didn't say you weren't planning on returning this. It's a child's letter!"

"And the order's a little big for Santa Claus, don't you think?" Root points out. "C'mon, Harry, we can't let this little girl go without her Christmas wish."

Harold's mouth falls open. "Surely you can't be suggesting—" he pauses, seeing Root's sheepish smile, and he turns aghast. "Ms. Groves, no! You have no idea who these people are—"

"There was a return address on the letter; I can find out..."

"—and you have no idea what they might be mixed up in!" Harold exclaims. "Why, the family could be horribly off! They might be mixed up in crime, or drugs, or human trafficking!"

"Human trafficking? Really?"

"I'm just saying that this is an unreasonable—and quite frankly, insane—idea," Harold says. "What if this doesn't work out? You may end up disappointing the little girl yet."

"Well, there's no shame in trying," Root points out. "Now, will you come with me and help stake out this address or not?"

"You're going to spy on these people?" Harold looks painfully worried. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Since when is that relevant?" Root asks offhandedly, opening the passenger door of her car expectantly. "You can man the GPS for me. I might even let you pick the music on the way back, if you're helpful."

Harold sighs. "This is a terrible idea."

"I'm the one who's going to subjected to opera music here," Root says, tilting her head to the open door. "Come on, Harry, don't be a Grinch. It's Christmas."

"The whole month of December is not Christmas, so please stop referring to every day as such," Harold argues back, but he gets in the car anyway.

The address isn't far, and it only takes about fifteen minutes by car to get there. The house is small and modest, a one-story with only half of its Christmas lights hanging. The yard is covered in broken snow, ruined by boots, and there seems to be a newly-made snowman. It's a nice sight, Root thinks, to imagine a world like that.

Harold makes a noise of disapproval beside Root as the car slows to a stop across the street. "I hope you know what you're doing," he mutters, "because you look much too attached already."

"It's sweet," Root insists. "Didn't you build snowmen with your family, Harold?"

"No, and you didn't either," Harold reminds her, eyeing the messy snow in the front yard. "I do hope you don't plan on just walking over there and introducing yourself."

"Not yet. I have to do more digging," Root says. "Maybe we can find out what their mailbox number is..."

"You're not breaking into their malibox," Harold tells her flatly.

"You're no fun." Root stares at the house a while longer. "I just wish I could do something to find out the woman's name. I tried running the kid's name through every database I could, but no hospitals have her under record, so I couldn't get a birth certificate..."

Harold winces. "Ms. Groves, this all sounds dangerously illegal," he warns.

"Better cover your ears next time, Harry—wait," Root says, squinting across the street. "I think someone's coming out of the front door."

"Wonderful," Harold says in a way that indicates it's anything but. "When, exactly, are we going to leave?"

"Shhh." Root waves a hand in front of his face, eyes directed on the front door. The door, a bright red thing, bangs open and a little redheaded, frizzy-haired girl comes out, excitedly gesturing to the snowman, as she is followed by a short, scowling brunette woman who clearly doesn't look too interested.

"Why, of all things," Harold says, tone hushed in something like disbelief. "That's Sameen Shaw."

"What?" Root tears her eyes away from the brunette—who is extremely attractive, not that that matters—to stare at Harold, her own disbelief plain as day. "You already know her?"

"I know of her, Ms. Groves," Harold says, annoyed, as he hears Root's accusatory tone. "I've met her once. She runs the dog shelter John volunteers at. I wasn't even aware she had a daughter."

"John knows her, does he?" Root says with a mischievous smile. "Well, let's go find him."

Harold glances to where Shaw and her daughter are getting into their own car. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks skeptically. "Believe me, Ms. Shaw isn't going to be easily won over; she doesn't seem to be the type very interested in relationships."

"Well, you know I've always loved a challenge," Root says, winking.

(Harold silently switches the station to an opera one as the car speeds off.)

.

.

.

"Carter's going to give you a ride home," Shaw tells Gen as they drive up to her school.

"Okay," Gen says, looking only slightly disappointed (because she loves Carter, and is convinced the woman is a spy like Gen aspires to be). "Are you going to go to the shelter after work?"

"Yeah. Carter'll drop you off there if I stay late," Shaw says, easing her car to a slower stop than usual (because she's in a school zone, and because Gen's begged her to drive less recklessly in front of her classmates more often than not). "Now get out there and, uh...learn something."

Gen smiles; Shaw's never been great at motivation, but Gen likes that she tries. "Bye Mom," she says, sliding out of her seat. "I love you."

"Bye, kid," Shaw replies, and she pauses for a few seconds and finishes, "...yeah. Bye."

Gen steps out of the car and watches her mom drive slowly out of the parking lot. It's not that big an effort, but Gen knows that it's the closest thing to an I love you, too that she's going to get.

Arriving at work, Shaw is greeted by her nurse, Cole, who always hangs around her office whenever management complains (because they're afraid of Shaw, which is something Shaw's pretty proud of).

"What are they bitching about now?" Shaw asks as soon as she sees him.

Cole, who had been opening his mouth to greet her, pauses. "I give up, what?" he asks.

"C'mon, don't tell me management isn't trying to get on my ass over something. That's the only reason you stop by here," Shaw says, suspiciously, even if she does get a nagging feeling that Cole's been getting a bit too attached to her lately (or, at least, isn't as afraid of her as he used to be).

"Well, I am your nurse, so, I'm pretty sure that's not the only reason," Cole says, laughing weakly and rubbing the back of his neck boyishly, as if unsure how far he can joke.

Shaw scoffs. "Whatever. What's up?"

"Um, you have a patient scheduled in twenty, so, I wanted to see if you're ready," Cole says readily.

Shaw shrugs. "I'm fine. Are you?"

A pause. "Y-yeah, but, just wanted to see if you'd eaten, and..."

"For fuck's sake, Cole, I was eating one time when I delivered the news to the dead guy's family," Shaw growls. "If that's what you wanna know, then I promise I won't be 'inconsiderate' to the families."

"And maybe you could try smiling?" Cole suggests.

"Don't push your luck," Shaw warns, but the tone isn't as biting as usual—nor does it make Cole edge away as quickly as possible (also as usual)—because as nurses go, he isn't terrible. Shaw might even tolerate him. (A little bit.)

"Well, patient's in the waiting room, whenever you're ready," Cole says, moving to go.

Shaw only grunts a reply as she snaps on her powder blue gloves.

.

.

.

"Finch, hey," John Reese says as soon as he sees Harold, but then he sees Root, and there's something akin to displeasure in his eyes instead of warmth. "Hi, Root."

"Reese," Root says with a sugary smile.

"Hello, John," Harold says, giving Root a warning look—she never has gotten along swimmingly with John since they've met—before turning back to his tall, broad-shouldered friend. "We wanted to stop by and see if the shelter needed a few more volunteers today."

John's eyebrows raise skeptically. "You want to volunteer," he echoes.

"Well, Ms. Groves does a lot more than I do, but it seems I've been roped into whatever it is she's doing," Harold mutters, but his disapproving tone turns to one of pain as Root elbows him subtly. (He gives her an incredulous look and inches away after that.)

"Okay, I'll show you guys the ropes," John says after a pause (during which he had given Root a suspicious look, because he's generally overprotective of Harold). "The owner usually stops by after work—you remember Shaw, right, Harold? I'm sure she'll be glad to have a few more hands helping out around here."

"I'll bet," Harold says, all false cheerfulness, but as soon as John turns his back Harold eyes Root disapprovingly. Root gives him a wink as they follow John past the entrance and to the back room, where the dogs are.

"Most of the dogs are rescued wandering around nearby roads," John explains as they walk through the room, which has large, sectioned-off areas of space, in which various dogs run around and play in.

Harold looks startled. "Does it always smell so..." he trails off, disgusted.

John takes a look at Harold's face and laughs. "You'll get used to it," he promises. "Come here, there's someone I want you to meet." He whistles, and a large dog lifts his head and proceeds to rush over to him. John kneels down beside the animal, scratching the dog behinds his ears, and says, "Harold, Root, this Bear."

"He's certainly a handsome dog," Harold says politely, but he doesn't move to pet the dog himself.

Root, however, immediately drops down to stroke his fur. "Is he yours?" she asks, forgetting any distaste she has for John, because while she isn't that much of an animal person, she likes dogs.

"Yeah, I rescued him," John says, looking happier than Root's ever seen him. "He can't stay at my apartment because animals aren't allowed, though, so Shaw let me keep him here. I think she likes him more than me, actually."

"Not a people person?" Root guesses.

"Definitely not," comes an answer from the doorway. As Root, Harold, and John turn to look, Sameen Shaw pushes off the wall and walks over to them, hands stuffed casually in her pockets. "And of course I like Bear more than you, Reese. You aren't half as sexy."

John just smirks as he gets up. "Nice to see you too, Shaw."

Shaw drops down to a squat beside Root, taking John's place in petting Bear, who recognizes her and eagerly nuzzles into her side. Shaw looks sideways at Root and states, "He doesn't seem to hate you."

Root looks down at the dog and then asks, "Should he?"

"He doesn't like everybody," Shaw says, shrugging, before turning her attention back to Bear.

Root is about to introduce herself (as she had planned to do before Shaw spoke), but she stops, unsure how to respond. John seems to pick up on this, and he eases into a conversation with Shaw again.

"So, Shaw, rough day at work?" he asks.

Shaw, who is still dressed in her scrubs, rolls her eyes. "Ugh, the day I've had," she says. "I'm not on probation or anything, because I've done nothing wrong, but those assholes like to act like I am."

"You do tend to piss people off," John agrees.

Shaw glares at him, as if daring him to continue. "I like to piss you off," she responds evenly.

John holds up his hands in surrender. "Well, try to be your usual charming self less today," he says. "You remember Harold, right?"

"Your not-boyfriend, sure," Shaw says, looking up and nodding in Harold's direction. "You still uptight, Finch?"

Harold turns to glare at Root, as if blaming her will make this better.

John clears his throat awkwardly. "And this is Root," he continues, gesturing to the mentioned woman. "They want to start volunteering here."

Shaw looks sideways at Root. "What for?"

"She's happy to have you on board," John assures Root and Harold.

Shaw rolls her eyes and gets up, giving Bear's head one last vigorous petting. "Fine," she says, "they can stay."

"They weren't exactly going to leave—"

"Reese, they can stay," Shaw repeats, and she turns and walks away.

John looks back at Harold and Root (the latter who has gotten off the floor too). "Don't worry," he says casually. "That's her way of showing how grateful she is for the help. Volunteers haven't exactly been rushing in, and Shaw can't hire anyone, so having new hands around here is appreciated."

Harold sighs. "This isn't how I pictured I'd be spending my December," he mutters distastefully.

"Chin up, Harold," Root says, looking over to the end of the room where Shaw is petting some other dogs, thinking that this could prove to be not as bad of a plan as she had thought. "I think this could be really good for us."

(He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a groan.)

.

.

.

Shaw is walking Gen to an ice cream parlor after soccer (Shaw hates the sport, and Gen does too, but they suffer through it together mostly to go place afterwards) when Gen finally asks what has been bothering her for ages.

"Mom, are you seeing someone?" she blurts out.

Shaw stops right in the middle of the sidewalk. "What?"

"You're always staying later than usual," Gen says quietly, "and you've been making me spend lots of time with Carter."

Shaw gives a short bark of a laugh. "Geez, sometimes I forget you're a spy," she jokes, and while that usually fills Gen with pride (Shaw doesn't like it when Gen does spy stuff, mostly because the neighbors complain), Gen won't take it today.

"Are you?" she asks again, stubbornly crossing her arms over her chest.

Shaw looks away, jaw clenched tight in annoyance at the question—no, the accusation. "Gen, that's none of your business, remember?" she says tightly. "But if you're itching for an answer, it's no. Got it?"

"But what about that guy...Tomas?" Gen asks carefully.

Shaw narrows her eyes at her daughter. "How do you know about him?" she demands.

Gen smiles weakly, trying to seem innocent. "I'm a good guesser?"

"Nice try." Shaw's unimpressed with her kid's usual spying, but this time, it's gone too far. "Let's go to the car. No ice cream today."

"But Mooom!"

Shaw ignores her and starts to walk back without bothering to see if Gen follows. They walk to the car in silence, Shaw with thoughts milling in her head about what her kid could've witnessed, and Gen with silent indignation. When they're in the car, Shaw speaks again.

"Tomas and I are something," she admits gruffly, mostly because she can't deny Gen stuff like that. "I can't describe it," without ruining her daughter's innocence, anyway, "but we're not dating."

Gen accepts that, for now, and she doesn't slouch down in her seat angrily as much; she sits up a little, carefully. "Does he make you happy?" she ventures to ask, voice coming out more timid than intended.

Shaw snorts at that. "You know I don't feel happy," she reminds Gen.

"I thought I made you happy," Gen whispers, almost too quietly for Shaw to hear.

But Shaw hears it, and she supposes a normal mother would feel bad and immediately backtrack to save her kid's feelings, but there's nothing in Shaw's gut that wrenches painfully to tell her that, so all Shaw gets out of this is that emotions are bullshit, and that she's never been happy a day in her life, and that Gen should know this.

"Tell you what," Shaw says, in an attempt to both change the subject and mollify her sad daughter, "we can stop by the shelter. Maybe after we check in on the place, we'll go get Chinese food."

Gen perks up even further. "We can go see Bear?"

"Yeah. You might even see John, too."

"Okay." Gen happily sits fully upright, seatbelt clicking into place as she eagerly awaits the car to start.

Shaw gruffly pats Gen's knee, and, well, it's a start.

At the shelter, Gen runs in and almost tackles John to the ground; he is kneeling over a pit bull, checking the dog's teeth, and is caught entirely off guard. When Shaw enters, she catches sight of the new volunteers, both of them there again today. The one with the limp she knows, and seems to be John's friend (not anything more, but Shaw doesn't believe it for a second), but he's not as nearly as weird as the other woman.

Root, if Shaw remembers correctly, is the woman's name. As volunteers go, Root isn't terrible; she seems to have a way with dogs, even if she's a bit forgetful about feeding times and doesn't do much cleaning of the cages. Root and Harold have been helping out for a week now, though, and already the place seems better off. It's nice to have more hands to help out, at the very least.

"Hi, Shaw," Root says cheerfully when she notices that Shaw has come in, looking up from the dog bowls she's filling.

Shaw nods in Root's direction—Root likes to greet everyone, it seems, but that's about all Shaw knows about her. Harold isn't an open book either, but Shaw's heard stories of him from John, and has heard nothing of Root except that she is Harold's friend and Bear seems to like her.

Gen walks back over to Shaw, catching the interaction with Root. "Who's that?" she whispers to Shaw.

Shaw leans over to (loudly) whisper back, "Someone who can hear you."

Gen, embarrassed, waves weakly in Root's direction. Root waves back, large smile taking over her face.

"So this must be the prodigal Gen," Root says brightly. "John's said great things."

Gen looks bashful for a second, but then she looks at Shaw. "John?" she repeats.

Shaw shifts in a manner that can only be described as awkward before she mumbles a vague excuse about taking Bear out for a walk and leaves. Gen doesn't try to argue; she just watches Shaw go, slightly disappointed because John's been talking about her, and not her own mother.

Root looks worried, like she's the cause of this. "I didn't mean it like that," she blurts out.

(Gen sees the old guy with glasses that hovers nearby send Root a dubious look.)

"It's okay," Gen says with a shrug. "I know she doesn't talk about me much." It's a reality Gen is reminded of too many times to count, because she can't have Shaw's name, and she can't let Shaw's coworkers know she exists, and...and...

Root is by Gen now, and she places a hand on Gen's shoulder. "You okay?" she asks, looking slightly awkward herself.

"Yes." Gen looks at Root weirdly and steps away. "I'll just go help John now..."

Root, looking embarrassed, doesn't bother watching her go.

.

.

.

Harold is taking John on a date.

"It is not a date," Harold keeps insisting, though. "Mr. Reese is involved with Ms. Morgan, and I—"

"And you are pining after him," Root says. "So do us all a favor and pretend it's a date."

"Going out for drinks isn't a date," Harold says firmly.

Root gives him a devious smile. "Harold, you and I both know you don't drink."

"...It is still not a date."

Root places her chin in her palms and continues smiling. "Well, go have fun on your not-date," she says. "And if you boys need anything, like some extra money, or someone to book you a motel room on short notice..."

"Ms. Groves!" Harold looks actually appalled.

"Oh, just go, Harry," Root says happily. "And thank you for this, really."

Harold gives her his usual disapproving look before he leaves the shelter. Root is now alone, with only the dogs there to keep her company, but she knows she won't be for long; Harold was the one who volunteered to keep John busy (and away) so when Shaw comes by the shelter, Root can be alone with her, because Root hasn't had the chance to really talk to Shaw yet, and Christmas is approaching quickly.

The door of the shelter banging open in an unrefined way twenty minutes later alerts Root of Shaw's entrance.

"Hi, Shaw," Root calls, happily. "Fancy seeing you here."

Shaw looks at Root as she walks in, and then around the room. "Where's Reese?" she asks briskly.

Root, confused, relays, "He went out with Harold."

Shaw walks into the room, her face showing a mix of anger and curiosity. "Well, the tension was killing me and all," she finally says, "but the jackass should've remembered he already had plans."

Root, then, notices that Shaw is actually not in her scrubs. In fact, the shorter woman looks good, dressed in a tight black dress and hair down instead of in its usual ponytail. (This whole getting-together-with-Shaw possibility seems more and more appealing to Root already.)

"So it was your turn for a hot date with John?" Root jokes.

Shaw stares back flatly. "No, he's all yours," she deadpans. "He was supposed to be my babysitter."

"Oh." Root doesn't quite know how to reply to that, and she's about to go and do something like refill the dogs' water bowls to avoid the topic, when she gets an idea. A crazy idea. One that makes me turn to Shaw, wide grin on her face, and say, "I can do it."

Shaw looks back, suspicious. "What, babysit my kid?"

"Yeah, I'll do it," Root says, more confident than she feels (she doesn't actually know how to deal with kids). "I'm not doing anything tonight, and whoever you're meeting should not miss out on seeing you in that dress."

Shaw narrows her eyes at the conspicuous compliment. "I don't know you."

"I'd like to get to know you better," Root says, sly grin more flirty than usual. "And besides, you know Harold. He wouldn't be friends with me if I was a bad person."

Shaw isn't sold on the idea, it seems. "I don't even know your last name," she adds skeptically, but it's a lame delay.

"Groves," Root says, holding out her hand. "We can be more professional if you'd like. It's nice to meet you, Sameen."

Shaw frowns. "How do you know my name?"

"Is it a secret?" Root asks, smiling. "I can keep a secret for you."

"...what are you doing?" Shaw questions, looking more pissed than anything, though her tone has a hint of curiosity at Root's unabashed flirting.

"I'm bored, Sameen—humor me," Root says.

Shaw's phone beeps, and she checks it, briefly ignoring Root. "Damn it," she hisses. "I'm late." She meets Root's eyes, looking annoyed and a even a little dismayed. "I'll call every hour," she warns. "You can leave with me."

Root beams. "You can call me anytime you'd like," she purrs.

Shaw doesn't bother hiding her eye roll as she turns around and leaves.

After locking the shelter, both women get into their respective cars. Root follows Shaw to their destination: the New York precinct, which is definitely the last place Root might have thought a ten-year-old would be. Upon entering, Root catches sight of Gen's crazy hair right away; the young girl is hunched over and scribbling at a paper, while a dark-haired woman sits beside her and drinks coffee.

"Carter, hey," Shaw calls out as they enter.

The woman looks in their direction, and catching sight of Shaw, lets out a low whistle. "Whoa, girl, you clean up nice!" Carter exclaims. "You going out without me and Zoe for once?"

"I have a social life outside you losers, you know," Shaw retorts, but there's a smirk to her lips that must be her equivalent to a smile. "Thanks for picking up Gen again. I owe you."

"Yeah, you do," Carter says with a smile, and she nudges an oblivious Gen, who Root notices has earphones stuck in her ears.

Gen looks up, and her face lights up at the sight of Shaw. "Mom!" she cries, getting up from her chair. "You're here early!"

Shaw looks slightly uncomfortable. "Yeah, but, listen...I'm not staying."

Gen looks at Shaw's clothes. "Oh, are you going out?" she asks, and then she looks to Carter. "But Detective Carter isn't dressed yet!"

Shaw, who seemingly has no time for kid antics, gets to the point. "Gen, do you remember Root?"

Gen meets Root's eye with neutrality. "Yeah," she affirms.

"Well, she's going to be watching you tonight," Shaw says. "Are you okay with that?"

"Not John?" Gen asks.

"John's going out, too," Shaw says, and when Gen lights up even more, Shaw is quick to add, "But not with me."

Gen pouts a little. "He could."

"Doesn't work that way," Shaw quickly shoots back, and Root suspects they've had that conversation far too many times. "Listen, I'm just going out for a few hours. I'll be back soon."

Gen shrugs. "Okay." She then turns to Root scrutinizingly. "Do you like Go Fish?"

Root's answer doesn't matter. Twenty minutes later, she's playing it anyway.

Gen and Root are in Shaw's home, which amazes Root; she never would have assumed that Shaw would let her into their home. The place is mostly bare, with minimal furniture and no pictures, but there are a few attempts of Gen's littered around the place, mostly scribbled drawings.

"Do you have any sixes?" Gen asks.

"Go fish," Root replies, and as Gen fishes for a card, Root asks, "Do you have any threes?"

Gen hands over a card wordlessly, and Root adds her completed three of cards in front of her. As far as babysitting as goes, Root is underwhelmed; Gen's a calm, orderly kid, and truthfully, the game's a little boring. She supposes she shouldn't be complaining, but she could use a little excitement.

"Do you have any ones?" Gen asks.

Root hands over both of her cards, and after watching Gen stack up those cards, finally blurts out, "Do you and your mom do this for fun?"

Gen carefully fixes her cards before replying, "No, she hates this game."

"Oh." Root isn't quite sure what to do with that information. "But you like it?"

"My mom won't play with me," Gen says, sidestepping the question. "John does sometimes, but he gets bored easy." The younger girl pauses to stare at her cards for a while and admits, "I don't like it that much, actually."

Root sets down her cards in relief. "So, what do you like?" she asks.

Gen breaks into a wide smile, her own cards set down at once.

For the next hour, Root examines Gen's "spying" hardware. The few cameras she's managed to hidden are impressive, but the young girl lacks good surveillance. Her subjects are even more boring; there is one, interestingly enough, in Shaw's car, and another at a grocery store nearby, and another on the front porch of a very loud neighbor, and a few other nondescript ones too.

"Have you found anything interesting?" Root asks.

Gen is beaming, proud that Root looks interested. "Nothing much," she says. "I once saw the neighbor kissing the mailman, but Mom said I couldn't tell her husband. She said it wasn't any of my business."

"Well, she might be right, but this is still impressive," Root says, looking over Gen's documents once more. "Do you go and collect the camers every night to collect the footage?"

"Yeah. I sneak out," Gen says proudly.

Root isn't supposed to condone bad behavior—at least, she supposes she shouldn't be as impressed as she is—but she can't help but admire that this kid has guts. "Well, if you want, I can help you better your system," Root offers. "I can get you a few security cameras that will wire to your computer, so you won't have to collect them every night."

"Really?" Gen looks excited. "Then I can be a better spy!"

Root promises to bring by some cameras next time Gen drops by the shelter, and Gen insists Root bring them by the next time she babysits instead (Root gets a little proud that Gen likes her when she hears that).

They end the night by watching a movie. Frozen is Gen's favorite, and she tells Root that Shaw won't play that movie at all (because Shaw thinks the songs are annoying), so Root willingly sits through the Disney movie without a complaint (even if she isn't really interested). Gen drifts off on Root's shoulder during the movie, and Root smiles at the ten-year-old, who looks so peaceful; this isn't as bad as she had expected it to be at all.

.

.

.

Tomas is really getting on Shaw's nerves.

The night before, he had insisted that they meet. Shaw hadn't had a call from him in weeks, and figured she could meet him one more time, but she had realized that he had been trying to set a date. It had pissed Shaw off, but she'd stuck around to spend the night anyway; she knew that she wouldn't see him again after that for sure.

But today, he keeps calling, and it's not at all welcomed.

"Mom, your phone's ringing again," Gen points out over her cereal.

Shaw slams the fridge door harder than necessary after grabbing her lunch to take to work. "I hear it," she growls, frustrated, much too overcome with the sound of Gen's spoon scraping the bowl, with the sound of the annoying ringtone Gen picked for Shaw's phone, and with the sound of the shower running upstairs (Root had slept over because Gen had insisted).

"Is Carter picking me up today?" Gen asks, oblivious to Shaw's annoyance.

"No," Shaw replies absentmindedly, but amends, "I mean yes. Is that a problem?"

Gen shakes her head, but she does ask hopefully, "Can Root pick me up instead?"

"No," Shaw replies immediately, suspicious of how taken Gen seems to be with Root; Root seems like the shifty type (and she keeps flirting with Shaw, dammit, and it's annoying as hell). "Now hurry up, we're going to be late."

The shower turns off upstairs. Shaw briefly lingers on how to ask Root to get the fuck out of the house before they're late (mostly to keep Gen's ears from hearing more bad language than she needs).

"Okay," Gen says, dropping her cereal bowl in the sink, "but I want to say bye to Root first."

Shaw grits her teeth and doesn't say anything.

Root comes down the stairs with the air of someone who's been there several times and not just once, dressed in yesterday's clothes with her wet hair limp, and somehow she's still...Shaw stops that train of thought before it starts. No way in hell is that going anywhere.

"Morning," Root says gracefully.

"We're late," is Shaw's flat reply. "Are you leaving or what?"

Gen gets embarrassed on Shaw's behalf. "Mom," she hisses, the way she does whenever Shaw's done something wrong.

"I take it you're not one for mornings, Sameen," Root says without missing a beat, and she grabs her purse and heads to the front door without a fight. "But it's okay, you still have your charm." She winks, actually winks, and then waves in Gen's direction. "Bye, Gen."

"Bye!" Gen calls excitedly.

Shaw rolls her eyes and pours herself a cup of coffee. "You aren't getting your stuff for school," she says, eyeing Gen critically after she takes the first gulp of the hot liquid.

Gen gladly abandons her unwashed plate and takes off upstairs.

Shaw checks her phone; there's a message from Cole.

Tread lightly, the message reads. Management heard about yesterday's patient.

Shaw swears under her breath. "Gen!" she yells, grabbing her stuff and heading to the door. "I'm leaving with or without you!"

Gen comes bounding down the stairs, two at a time. "I'm ready!" she insists, her backpack hanging half of her shoulder and one of her shoes untied.

Shaw doesn't even blink at the sight before she's ushering Gen out the door.

.

.

.

"You're taking a day off of work. It's kind of funny," Hanna muses as she walks beside Root. "I mean, you usually live and breathe your computer stuff."

Root rolls her eyes goodnaturedly. "And yet, I didn't exactly have to twist your arm to get you to take a day off and join me," she points out.

"If you were Nathan Ingram's secretary, you'd do the same," Hanna complains. "He's so boring."

And financially stable, Root thinks, and Harold's friend.

But what she says instead is, "He can't be that bad."

"At least he's not a creepy old man, I guess," Hanna admits after a few seconds. "I mean, it could be worse. But still, I never even expected to get that job, so it's hard adjusting."

Root just shrugs, thinking of her handiwork with that. "You were the only one to apply."

"Yeah. That was weird, too."

Root is glad when they reach their destination, so she can change the subejct. "Okay, do you want to come in?" she asks. "I'm just going to grab a few security cameras. It won't take long."

Hanna shrugs. "I can meet you back here in ten," she offers, her tone innocent enough.

"Okay, I'll see you," Root says, and they part ways.

Thirty minutes later, Root finds Hanna sitting on a barstool, smiling at a guy Root doesn't recognize. Great, Root thinks sourly, here Hanna is, and not outside the security store like they had arranged.

Hanna spots Root and lights up. "Samantha! Come meet someone!"

Root plasters a fake smile on her face as she takes the stool next to Hanna's. "Hanna, you were supposed to meet me twenty minutes ago," she says, calm through her fake smile.

Hanna waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, sorry," she says, before she changes the subject. "So. This is Tomas."

Tomas is pretty good-looking, Root supposes, but still...Root's gay. And Hanna really should know that by now.

"Nice to meet you," Root says, sweetly enough.

"He's also single," Hanna adds, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

"I'm sure the two of you have that in common, then," Root says, because while she can recognize a setup when she sees one, that doesn't mean she appreciates the gesture.

Hanna huffs. "Samantha, come on, he's more your type," she points out, as if he isn't sitting right beside her.

"Hanna, I'm not going to have this talk with you again," Root begins, a warning on her lips.

"He's hot! You could use a good lay," Hanna argues anyway.

(Tomas looks kind of flattered, but also kind of uncomfortable.)

"I like women!" Root exclaims, annoyed. "Can we stop this already?"

(Tomas is definitely more uncomfortable now.)

Hanna hesitates, like she wasn't expecting that argument. "I just—I thought you—"

"What? Did you think it was phase? That I was joking?" Root asks, coldly. "Being gay isn't like having a cold. It's not contagious, it doesn't go away with time, and it's not a passing thing. It's me. It's my sexuality!"

"I know," Hanna says, but her tone is hesitant. "It's just—you've gone out with men."

"Well, you french kissed Harper Rose in college," Root retorts. "Are you gay?"

Hanna looks instantly horrified. "We agreed to never speak of that!"

(Tomas has silently slipped away at this point.)

"Does it bother you?" Root asks, sharply. "That I'm gay?"

"No. No, of course not," Hanna quickly tries to salvage the situation. "It's just—it's hard to wrap my head around."

"Well I'm sorry it's been such an inconvenience to you." Root stands up. "I'm going to go."

"Samantha, please—"

"My name," Root cuts her off, voice firm, "is Root."

.

.

.

Christmas is hardly a big affair.

Shaw spends the day with just Gen, because everyone she knows is on vacation since their kids don't have school. (And her kid-less friends are just using the weather as an excuse not to stay in New York either.)

Presents have already been open for a while when Gen suddenly says, "Oh, I forgot! I have a present for you too, Mom."

Shaw looks up from the pack of steak knives Carter had given her. "You do?" she asks suspiciously. Gen has no money of her own, which means it's either been bought by Carter or John (and Shaw's stressed enough that the two of them shouldn't spoil her kid).

Gen's beaming with excitement as she hands off a lumpy, small package that she's undoubtedly wrapped herself. "Open it!"

Shaw does. It's...an Order of Lenin medal. Gen's grandfather's Order of Lenin medal, which is the only thing Gen has of her birth family. Shaw runs her fingers over the metal, admiring its beauty, but sighs nonetheless. "Gen..."

"I know it's my grandpa's," Gen cuts her off, looking a little shy now. "And I promise I'm not trying to...dishonor my family, or whatever you say when you don't let me take your last name. I just want you to keep it so it's safe."

Shaw grips it firmly, understanding now. She has always kept Gen at an arm's length when it comes to being her mother; she knows taking over for Gen's family has never been the most successful thing she's ever done. Gen doesn't know her family, much less the cocaine-addicted cousin of Gen's that died on her operating table, who left behind the medal Gen's given to her now. But Gen's tether to her family is just that: the medal. And now, she's entrusting it to Shaw.

Shaw looks at it a while longer, then tugs Gen into a curt hug. Gen smiles, burying her face into her mother's shoulder, and whispers: "Just don't sell it."

Shaw snorts, letting go, because that's exactly what the cocaine-addicted cousin had wanted to do. "Okay, kid," she says, somewhat fondly, and then taps on the cell phone "Santa" had given Gen for Christmas. "Hey, do you want to prank call John?"

"Yes."

.

.

.

"Hi, sweetie," Root calls as she walks into the shelter, shaking the snow out of her hair. She knows Shaw is the only one there, so she doesn't try and mask the flirtatious tone in her voice.

Shaw's eating a sandwich, feet up on the wood of her desk, and she scowls when Root comes in. "Don't get snow everywhere," she warns, not even mentioning the flirting (which Root thinks is a vast improvement).

Bear comes bounding over to Root, and Root eagerly drops down to pet him.

"Finch isn't with you," Shaw notes through a mouthful of her lunch.

"A couple of his students scheduled a study hour with him," Root says, setting her purse and jacket on Shaw's desk (which Shaw gives her a nasty side-eye for). "And John?"

"Pursuing his latest girlfriend, probably," Shaw snorts. "What about you? You work?"

Root, gleeful that Shaw's actually starting a conversation, responds eagerly, "I work at Harold's college. I'm one of the main technology consultants."

"So you're a nerd then," Shaw says, dropping her feet off her desk as she polishes off the rest of her sandwich.

"Aren't you the one who became a doctor?" Root teases playfully.

Shaw scowls again. "That's not a nerd thing."

"One of the most taxing fields to get into, though, isn't it? You must've studied a lot to get where you are," Root says, all charm, as she sits down on the corner of Shaw's desk.

Shaw frowns up at Root, not liking the proximity of the taller woman. "Whatever," she mumbles, and she gets up. "I'm going to take Bear for a walk. You want to take the border collie in the corner?"

This is an inclusion, and Root lights up. "Anything for you, Sameen."

Shaw's muttered "don't call me that" is quieter than usual.

Root likes this, the way they walk casually through a nearby park (that is close to the shelter, so they can see if anyone approaches). Shaw doesn't seem to dislike Root; she seems annoyed, sure, but at the very least, she seems to appreciate the work Root is putting into the shelter. Root herself is surprised by how much she likes working there, too, for not being such an animal person.

"So, are you off today?" Root asks lightly. "You're out early."

Shaw eyes Root, suspicious. "How do you know when I get out of work?"

"Gen told me," Root says. She's been in touch with the young girl since she gave her the security cameras, and the ten-year-old has grown on Root, to be honest.

"You're the one she keeps calling late at night?" Shaw stops abruptly. "That's fucking weird."

"If you'd rather I call you—" Root begins impishly.

Shaw starts walking faster. "I'm on probation for a couple of weeks," she replies to Root's earlier question, changing the subject. "So I'm going to keep the shelter open longer."

"Probation?" Root repeats inquiringly.

"Yeah. Apparently it's fucked up to tell the family of the guy who just died on your operating table that he's dead while eating one too many times," Shaw says, and she isn't sure why exactly she's telling Root this, but fuck it, she needs a change of subject, and Root isn't terrible company, even if it seems to be the taller brunette's sole purpose in the world to piss Shaw off by flirting.

"I was once fired from a job as a secretary," Root interjects. "He was a government official. Pretty big in the world of politics. But, you know, holding a gun to his chest and stealing ten thousand from his bank account was a deal breaker."

Shaw almost misses a step to stare at Root (in either quiet bewilderment or respect).

Root grins. "I'm kidding," she says.

Shaw rolls her eyes and keeps walking. Root moves closer, not missing how Shaw edges away every time she does. Root kind of likes annoying Shaw. Shaw gets huffy and kind of mad, and Root thinks that it's a good look for Shaw, instead of the usual blank, emotionless state. One day, Root reasons, she'll get a smile out of Shaw.

Shaw's jaw is tense as she walks, her cheeks red from the cold, and while Root admires Shaw's attractiveness, all she is stuck on is how determined Shaw can be when she wants. It's sort of endearing...

"Shit," Shaw suddenly stops, reaching into her pocket to check her phone as it buzzes to life with a text message, "it's Gen's parent-teacher conference day."

"You can go," Root says, only slightly disappointed she can't spend the whole day with Shaw. "I'm sure I can handle watching the shelter by myself."

Shaw hesitates, not because she worries Root will be overwhelmed with the work, but because she fears Root will somehow burn her shelter to the ground. "Fine," she says after a minute, "but I'm coming back right after."

"Have some faith in me, Sam," Root says, smiling easily. "I can handle it."

(Root is not prepared for what comes next.)

See, no one stops by the shelter at first, so Root decides to sit at Shaw's desk, feet up and relaxed, typing away at the computer Shaw has set up there. It's an old one that leaves a lot to be desired, but it gets the job done.

Shaw's digital footprint is best described as scarce. Root has combed through the web for anything on her before, but to no avail. There are a few things she's taken note of—like the fact that Shaw was arrested once for freeing dogs locked up for a medical study at a hospital, which Root thinks is totally sweet—and a few things she's iffy about (like the fact that Shaw was almost married, which she can't get a concrete answer for).

And then someone enters the shelter.

Root's never been a people person, but as soon as she sees Tomas—the guy Hanna tried to set her up with—walk in, flowers in hand, Root becomes instantly suspicious. Unless Tomas didn't get the memo on her sexuality, or he's there to woo John, that leaves...

"Hi," Tomas says, all casualness and charm. "Samantha, right? We met a few days ago."

"It's Root, actually," Root corrects, pasting a smile on her face so fake it's a wonder it's even a smile at all. "Hi, it's nice to see you again." Not.

"Oh, sorry," Tomas says, referring to not knowing Root's name, but not sounding sorry at all. "I'm looking for Shaw," he adds, twisting his flowers a little to show his intentions. "Is she coming in today?"

"You know what, she just left," Root says, feigning sympathy. "I think she has a date." She stresses the word cheerfully, so he'll get the hint and beat it.

Tomas looks surprised. "Oh." He sets the flowers down on the desk and says, "Well, can you tell her I stopped by?"

"Sure thing," Root replies sweetly, and as he moves to leave, she says, "Tomas? You might want to take the flowers."

(Tomas does.)

As soon as he's gone, Root immediately calls Harold.

"Ms. Groves," he greets cordially. "I take it this isn't a social call."

Root doesn't give him an answer; she gets right to the point. "Harold, what do you know about a guy Shaw knows named Tomas?" she asks.

"I have never heard that name before. What is his last name?"

"Not sure yet. I'm sure I can find him online after cracking a few firewalls—"

"Please refrain from participating in more criminal activity, please," Harold cuts in, and Root can't see his face, but she imagines he's wincing. "I'll text John and see what I can find out."

"Quickly?" Root asks hopefully.

"As quickly as I can, Ms. Groves. Good day," Harold says as he hangs up.

(Root's mostly hoping Tomas isn't who Shaw almost married.)

.

.

.

"Hey, Carter," Shaw calls as she strolls into the precinct.

Carter looks up from her desk. "Oh, hey, Shaw," she says, surprised. "Wasn't expecting you to come. Did Gen leave something here yesterday?"

Shaw frowns, stopping in her tracks. "You mean my kid isn't here?"

Carter slowly sets down the paperwork she's been working on. "No," she says carefully, the detective part of her flaring up instantly. "I stopped by her school to pick her up a couple minutes late, and the crossing guard told me she'd left with a brunette woman. I assumed it was you..."

"Fuck," Shaw swears, turning around to get out of there as quickly as possible.

"I can get an alert out on her quick," Carter says, already jumping to her feet. "I'm so sorry, Shaw, I—"

"I'm going to kill that kid," Shaw growls as she stalks out of the building, barely registering Carter's apology; she doesn't blame Carter for this, knowing Gen's old enough to know not to leave school witthout permission.

Carter jogs to catch up with Shaw, following her to her car. "Should I send out that alert?"

"Not yet. I'll try John," Shaw says, dialing his number quickly. He answers a few rings later.

"Hey Shaw, you coming in yet?" he asks.

"Have you seen Gen?" Shaw asks instead of replies, cutting to the chase.

"She stopped by to pick up something, I think," John says. "Why?"

"Alone?" Shaw asks, already starting up the car. Carter gets into the passenger side wordlessly.

"No, she was with Root," John answers. "Did something happen?"

"You better hope nothing did, or I'm killing someone tonight," Shaw growls and hangs up without so much a a thank-you. "Carter, did you give Gen the spare house key?"

"Yeah, when I dropped her off yesterday." Carter's concerned, sneaking glances at Shaw repeatedly. "Did she—I mean, do you think—"

"I don't know," Shaw utters grimly, and she slams her foot on the gas pedal, pulling out of her parking spot with a loud screech.

Carter eyes the speedometer. "I'm going to pretend I'm not seeing any of this," she warns.

"Can it, NYPD. You aren't a police officer," Shaw says as she makes a sharp turn. By the time she gets to her house, she's half relieved and half pissed off to see that the front porch lights are on.

Carter reaches for her gun. "You want me to clear the place first?"

"No. Just come to make sure I don't fucking kill Root," Shaw growls, getting out of the car.

"Root's the new girl who's volunteering, right?" Carter clarifies as she hurries after Shaw. "The one who John swears is sweet on you?"

"She's not sweet on me," Shaw snaps. "She's just annoying."

"Mm-hmm," Carter hums knowingly. "She's got you, doesn't she?"

Shaw ignores her and unlocks the front door, flinging it open widely and stalking into the house. "GEN!" she hollers loudly (making Carter wince as she enters after Shaw).

Carter sniffs the air. "You smell something burning?" she questions.

As if on cue, the fire alarm starts blaring. Shaw and Carter make their way into the kitchen, Carter with her hand on her gun, and Shaw with an angry look on her face.

Gen and Root both have the decency to look sheepish, Gen by tucking her arms behind her back and quietly stepping away from the stove, Root by giving an apologetic smile as she yanks a saucepan emitting large swirls of smoke off of the stove and depositing it in the sink.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Shaw growls right away, springing forward and grabbing the front of Root's shirt, much to Carter's chagrin (and slight alarm). "You kidnapped my kid!"

Root, strangely enchanted by the show of violence, tries to justify her actions. "I—I'm sorry," she tries hesitantly. "Gen called me. She said she checked with you, and you said I could pick her up."

"And you believed her?" Shaw says, incredulous. "You couldn't have checked with me?"

A grin spreads on Root's lips. "Well, I don't have your number..."

Unimpressed, Shaw lets go of Root's shirt. "What'd you burn?" she asks, changing the subject.

At that, Root laughs uneasily, looking between Carter and Shaw. "Gen was hungry, so I thought I'd make her something," she explains. "Except, um...I didn't know that canned chili cooks pretty quickly. Who would have guessed, right?"

Shaw sighs. "Carter, you can go if you want. I'll deal with this."

Carter nods. "I'll tell John things are resolved," she adds. "He keeps trying to ask me what's happening. And..." she trails off, looking at Root pointedly. "Can I see your friend out?"

"Please," Shaw says, giving Root a warning glance.

Root smiles courteously. "Then I guess this is goodbye, Sameen," she says. She winks at Shaw, and then directs her charm to Gen. "I'll talk to you later, Gen."

"Okay, bye!" Gen hugs Root hard, and Root beams.

Once Carter and Root are gone, Shaw turns and stares at Gen firmly.

Gen gives an uneasy smile. "I'm sorry?" she offers.

"You're grounded forever," Shaw tells her.

Gen pouts. "But Mom—"

Shaw shakes her head. "I don't even want to hear what crazy explanation you have for letting a complete stranger take you home from school," she states. "Or why you let her stay in our house."

"But you let her babysit once!" Gen argues.

"Once," Shaw echoes. "That doesn't mean she's your new mother."

Gen huffs. "Well, I like Root," she says hotly. "And I want her to be my babysitter."

"No. We know nothing about her."

"But you can learn!" Gen begs. "Please, Mom? Root's fun."

"You can have fun with John and Carter," Shaw replies, "because there's no way that Root's going to be your babysitter. Why are you having fun with someone my age, anyway? Root's too old to be your friend."

"But she's still my friend," Gen repeats stubbornly. "You need to be nicer to her."

Shaw exhales, deeply annoyed. "Fine," she agrees, mostly to change the subject. "I'll be nice. But you have to follow the rules I tell you, and only spend time with her when I'm there. Okay?"

Gen accepts that. "Okay," she echoes.

"And no more late night phone calls," Shaw adds. "That's just weird."

.

.

.

Root really likes spending time with Gen.

It's weird (and Harold's told her as much too), since Root generally isn't very good with kids. With no sisters or brothers, and no extended family, Root has never had nieces, nephews, or young cousins to spend time with; she's known some of Hanna's nieces and nephews, but that's about it. (It's not like she finds kids to be riveting company.)

But Gen's invited Root to her birthday party, and Shaw hasn't told her she can't go, so Root brings Harold to Shaw's house. She would bring Hanna, but she hasn't talked to Hanna at all since the incident in the bar almost a month ago, and Hanna's given her space too.

"Do you think we're overdressed?" Root asks Harold as they step up to the door.

Harold, who loves his suits and white dress shirts, looks at her like she's crazy. "I didn't dress out of the ordinary for this party," he says, and then his looks morphs into one of dread. "Do you think I should have?"

"Depends. How are you with kids?"

Harold's look turns into one of horror, and Root laughs.

After the door is opened by a hesitant Carter (who eyes Root suspiciously), Root and Harold walk inside. Harold is nearly knocked over as an energetic young girl runs past, and he glares at Root, practically seething. Root shrugs at him, and then tugs him towards the backyard to find Gen and Shaw.

Outside, the yard is decorated in bright reds, yellows, and blues; children Gen's age, and some younger, run around wearing bright party hats and blowing party-favor whistles. Bear is running around too, and Root spots Gen with her arms around the dog.

"Root!" Gen catches sight of Root, too, and she lets go of Bear to hug the woman.

"Gen, happy birthday!" Root exclaims, affectionately ruffling the girl's hair. "You're eleven years old now, huh?"

"Yeah! I'm old enough to go to Hogwarts," Gen declares proudly. "Mom says she might get me a pet, just like first-year Hogwarts students!"

"Might," comes a grumbling voice, and Root turns to look at Shaw, who looks almost comical with a party hat strapped to her head.

"Aw, Sameen," Root coos. "You look adorable."

Shaw rips off the party hat like she'd forgotten it was there, her glare cutting but somewhat embarrassed. "Shut up," she mutters hotly, turning and walking away.

Harold grips Root's arm before she can follow. "Perhaps, Ms. Groves, you should dial down the flirtatious banter while Genrika is present," he murmurs so Gen can't hear.

"I hardly think she minds," Root says, but she does let her eyes drift to Gen, who is watching her mother go with a look of amusement on her face.

Gen turns back to Root eagerly a second later, her mother forgotten. "I have to show you my cake," she announces. "It's so cool."

"Lead the way," Root replies easily. "Harry, I trust you can keep Bear company?"

Bear licks Harold's hand, and Root decides that the look of terror Harold gets is quite hilarious.

Gen drags Root away from Harold and inside, where a couple of young kids linger on the kitchen floor, fingers sticky with juice and cookie crumbs. (Root also decides it was a good move to leave Harold outside, because he would've passed out out of sheer horror at the sight of the messy toddlers.)

"It's a Harry Potter cake," Gen announces, opening the fridge and motioning for Root to look.

"Wow, that is cool," Root agrees brightly. "Do you like Harry Potter?"

"I love Harry Potter. I want to be in Slytherin," Gen declares, like no other house can even be an option. "I think my Mom would be in Gryffindor."

Root finds that oddly cute. (And it's not because she's a Harry Potter nerd. Not at all.) "I would want to be in Slytherin too," Root says brightly.

Gen looks both excited and a little sad, but she covers it up by grabbing Root's hand again. "Come on, I want you to meet my friends," she demands, not giving Root a say in the matter.

Root wonders just for a split second what made Gen upset, but then she's dragged into a sea of sticky-fingered children (and she remembers why she doesn't get along with kids in the first place). Root greets them all politely, but she doesn't know why Gen's introducing a grown-up to her ten and eleven-year-old friends; it's odd, enough for Gen.

"Is this your new mom?" one boy asks after the introductions have passed.

Gen looks angrily at the boy. "No!" she cries defensively. "My mom isn't gone."

"But your other mom is. The blond one," the boy says, not out of rudeness, but childish curiosity.

Root's interest is piqued. Could the mystery blond be the factor missing in Shaw's almost-marriage?

Gen looks entirely too upset at the mention of the blond, though, and she nearly tackles the boy. Root manages to step in and dissuade Gen's intentions, but not before Gen gets a few hits in, leaving a hurt ten-year-old boy behind as Root drags Gen off, the younger girl with hot tears falling down her cheeks.

"Oh, sweetie," Root sighs, pulling Gen into a hug once they're inside, "I'm sorry."

Gen buries her face into Root's chest and sobs, arms tight around Root's waist. Root knows it must be a sore subject, and she lets it go; she doesn't want to ask anything, just let Gen tell her on her own.

A furious Shaw suddenly bangs open the door, jaw tight and eyes brimming with anger. "Where's my kid?" she barks. "Why the hell is some kid out there saying she hit him?" Shaw stops, however, at the edge of the living room when she spots Root comforting Gen.

"He's fine, isn't he?" Root asks, only mildly concerned for the boy.

"His pride not so much, but yeah," Shaw replies, uninterested too, instead looking at Gen with worry reflected on her face. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Root confesses. "I—well, I don't understand what happened."

Gen pulls away from Root, wiping at her eyes. "He said that Martine was gone," she sniffs, voice cracking. "And that Root was replacing her."

At the unfamiliar name, Shaw's jaw tightens again. "Well he's right," she says gruffly. "You know Martine's gone."

Gen's eyes fill with tears again. "I know," she admits reluctantly. "But he had no right to say that."

"Gen, he's a kid. You're a kid," Shaw reminds her firmly, though not unkindly. "He didn't mean to make you sad, and you shouldn't have hit him for that."

"I'm not sad," Gen denies, voice strong like she's said it too many times.

Shaw nods like she doesn't believe Gen, but gestures to the door anyway. "Okay then. Now go out there and apologize," she says.

Gen wipes at the last of her tears angrily. "Fine," she fumes, stomping out the door in annoyance when her mother doesn't take her side.

Root awkwardly watches Gen go before her eyes flicker to Shaw; Shaw, too, is watching Gen leave, but with something akin to regret displayed on her face. Shaw turns when she feels Root's eyes on her, and she scowls.

"What?" Shaw demands, but it's in a weak tone.

Root gives her a small smile. "Nothing, Sameen. You did the right thing."

"Glad to know I have your approval," Shaw mutters sarcastically, but as she moves to exit, she looks back at Root. "You coming?"

Root's smile widens.

.

.

.

"Tell me why we're doing this?"

Root doesn't reply, at first; she's too busy flipping through the DVD collection she has spilled on her floor. "Aha!" she cries, pulling out a DVD case with one hand while trying not to slosh the beer in her other hand. "I found it!"

Shaw rolls her eyes. "I've seen The Lion King, Root."

"Yes, but not," Root pauses to push the DVDs aside and take a gulp of her beer, "while drunk at midnight."

"I'm not drunk." Shaw sits down on the couch, anyway, just to appease Root. "You're on your way, though."

"I'm fine. I have a doctor here," Root giggles, winking sloppily, and maybe it's the alcohol or the poor lighting of Shaw's living room, but Shaw looks good today. Maybe better than usual, with her scrubs gone and replaced with sweats and a tank top.

Shaw picks up a beer for herself, ignoring Root's comment. "That wasn't even a wink. You can't wink," she mutters, said as an insult and—dare Root hope—endearingly?

"Rude," Root huffs, no bite to her voice, as she pops in the DVD. She's just finished a night of babysitting for Gen (Root was the last resort, but she's still proud), and since Shaw's arrived, Root has made it a mission to get the other woman to become her friend. Or her more-than-friend. The latter would be nicer, but since Root's already failed with the whole get-Sameen-before-Christmas thing, due to poor time managment, she's decided that any way she can have Shaw in her life is better than nothing.

Root plops down on the couch next to Shaw as the opening credits start, and revels in the way Shaw doesn't inch away. (Also, in the fact that Shaw totally hums along to the opening song, which Shaw vehemently denies, but Root knows better.)

By the time Mufasa dies, Root's had a little too much to drink. Normally she wouldn't be able to tell, but when she starts to cry at his death scene, okay, that's a clear indication. Shaw looks strangely uncomfortable at the sight of tears, but Root doesn't seek comfort; her drunken self eventually calms down enough to stop crying, but she also starts to yell at the TV. Loudly.

"Come on, Simba! You're such a slow broom handle! Move it already!" Root yells.

Shaw looks at Root weirdly; she doesn't know Root well enough for this. "Root, Simba is a lion."

"Says who?" Root asks childishly, and she manages to remain mostly silent for a while...but then the second half of the movie starts. "How does the Nala know Simba's even her same childhood friend? This is bullshit. Heteronormative bullshit," Root rants, spilling some of her beer on the couch as she gestures wildly. "Go marry Pumba, Simba! You knew him longer!"

"I think you've had enough," Shaw finally says, taking the beer out of Root's hand.

Root pouts. "Not enough," she whines, but her head drops unceremoniously on Shaw's shoulder as the bottle is taken away (which makes Shaw stiffen, but Root does not notice). "Shaw," Root suddenly blurts out, "who is Martine?"

Shaw's eyes struggle to hold cold impassiveness. "No one," she replies sharply. "You're drunk."

"So're you," Root argues, even though Shaw's not even tipsy. Root's quiet for a moment, humming softly so Shaw can feel vibrations on her neck, before she speaks up again. "Did you love Martine?"

"I don't love anyone," Shaw says firmly.

"You love Gen," Root says softly, her hand coming to rest on Shaw's shirt. "I see it."

Shaw swallows, removing Root's hand. "Root...you're drunk," she reiterates.

Root nods, then pauses. "No. No, I'm not," she negates. "You're just mean."

Shaw pushes Root away, finally, and stands up. "I can call you a cab," she says. "Or is there someone I can call? A friend, or someone?"

"Sameen," Root gasps, giggling, "are you trying to ask if I'm dating someone?"

At that, Shaw can't help rolling her eyes. "I'm trying to see if you actually have friends, which I doubt you do," she corrects. "Do you have Harold's number?"

"Do you?" Root asks, rolling over on the couch to lay down.

"For God's sake, Root," Shaw swears, noticing how Root seems to be drifting off to sleep. "Fine. You can stay on my couch. Just don't throw up on it, lightweight."

Root smiles, even half-asleep. "You're right, you know," she whispers as Shaw makes to leave. "I don't really have friends."

Shaw doesn't know how to respond, so she turns and leaves. She does make sure to return and drape a blanket over Root, though. (Only because if Root freezes to death then Shaw will be convicted of manslaughter. Not for any other reason, obviously.)

.

.

.

"Well, you're certainly right, Ms. Groves," Harold murmurs as his fingers work on his laptop's keyboard. "Martine Rousseau was nearly married. Her latest social media account update indicates she is currently in a relationship with a Jeremy Lambert, but she has not taken down a picture from two years ago that is captioned 'engaged now' with a rather impressive ring to show for it."

"You can say Twitter, Harry. Maybe it'd help those gray hairs stay away," Root teases, but her attention is entirely on Martine Rousseau, so it's a halfhearted insult. "Does she have any pictures with Shaw?"

Harold clicks through her account, but shakes his head. "No, it seems Ms. Shaw isn't fond of pictures," he says. "Or, perhaps, Ms. Rousseau has deleted all pictures that featured Ms. Shaw."

Root sighs, taking a hearty gulp of her glass of wine. "Great," she says, "Shaw's not only unavailable, but she has baggage."

Harold eyes her wine with thinly veiled disapproval. "I thought you had resolved to give up on your romantic pursuit of Ms. Shaw," he says, choosing to ignore the fact that Root keeps opening his good wine bottles. "Why the sudden interest?"

"I'd still like to be friends." Root shrugs, tracing the outline of her glass intently, but when she looks up it's not hard to miss the look of worry etched on Harold's face. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I can pine if I want."

"Of course, but it's not healthy," Harold states, reaching to pour himself a glass of wine too.

"Says you, who pines over John 24/7," Root mumbles childishly, but she regrets it when she sees Harold tense behind his glass. "Wait. I didn't mean it like that."

Harold shakes his head. "No, that's quite alright," he assures his friend. "I admit I am never very outspoken over my emotions. John understands, I'm sure."

"John wouldn't see that you love him even if you'd plaster a sign confessing your love on the side of the Empire State building," Root scoffs. "He's cute, but beneath that brawn there's not much else."

"Would you please stop insulting him? It's not cordial," Harold huffs, the closest to defensive that Root's ever seen him.

Root smiles sheepishly; she had promised not to insult John anymore. "Right. Sorry."

Harold hums in approval, accepting her apology, as he takes another sip of wine. "How is Hanna faring at work?" he changes the subject. "I know Nathan says she's a good worker, but he mentions she doesn't seem very fond of the work."

"I wouldn't know," Root confesses, strangely guilty. "I haven't spoken to Hanna in a while."

At Root's confession, Harold's eyebrows scrunch in confusion. "But you two are inseparable," he says slowly. "Why, was she not the sole reason why you went after Sameen in the first place?"

"That was a shitty reason," Root says absentmindely. "Pursuing Shaw just to prove a point to Hanna. God, that was stupid, wasn't it? Just like something out of a movie."

"Ms. Groves, did something happen between you two?" Harold asks, concerned.

Root ignores him. "It's like a cliché, Harry, the way a girl goes after someone not out of genuine interest, but like a sick game—"

"Ms. Groves."

"—and it's really not conventional, is it? I mean—"

"Ms. Groves."

"—what kind of a relationship can form out of a lie? Maybe not all of it was a lie, but some moments—"

"Root," Harold cuts her off, gentle but firm. "Did you perhaps breach the topic of your sexuality again?"

Root's resolve crumbles down, and she throws herself back on Harold's couch with a deep sigh. "I don't get it, Harry," she mutters. "I've been through everything with Hanna. I listened to her talk on and on about kissing boys and being in relationships...but when I talk about my sexuality, it's all 'it's just hard to wrap my head around' and 'you can't blame me for being surprised'."

"I understand." Harold pauses, contemplating, before he quietly continues, "I don't have many friends, but I understand how you feel. It's difficult to make others see the double standards we find, and to make them see our way."

Root clinks her wine glass against his. "Two single people living it up," she says, simply, in response. "Do you want me to top you off?"

Harold grimaces. "I should say no," he says, but he holds out his glass in a way that says yes. "Will you talk to Hanna again?"

"Eventually." Root sets down the empty wine bottle after she fills both her glass and Harold's. "Will you talk to John?"

"That is much more complicated. He is involved with Ms. Morgan and I would not want to overstep my boundaries." Harold takes a swallow of wine, obviously in lament. "I suppose you won't speak to Ms. Shaw, either."

Root crinkles her nose. "Too messy."

Harold nods slowly, like he gets it, and this time he's the one to clink his glass against hers.

.

.

.

"I want to see Martine."

Anyone else would have stiffened, out of hurt and old wounds, but Shaw, for her credit, doesn't. "No," she replies evenly, continuing to shuffle through the paperwork on the shelter's desk.

Gen, however, is every bit as stubborn as her mother. "Yes," she counters. "I have to ask her why."

"Why what?"

"Why she left us," Gen explains, and her tone of voice indicates she's a few seconds away from tacking on duh.

"She left us because she didn't want to marry me, Gen. We've gone over this," Shaw snaps, hoping the girl will drop the subject. It's not a sore subject, per se; Martine was a nice enough person—if not a little cold—but Shaw was not torn up when Martine finally left. Her only regret is that Gen adored Martine, and still feels hurt by Martine's departure.

"But there has to be more than that," Gen huffs.

Shaw knows exactly what it was; she couldn't love Martine, and Martine wisely left. "Well, it was a breakup," Shaw says. "You know about breakups. People don't always stay together."

"But why did you break up?" Gen pleads, grasping at straws to understand. "I...I miss her." The last part is said quietly, meekly, like Gen expects a riot to occur as a result of her words.

That makes Shaw stiffen, if only momentarily. "She's gone, Gen," she redeems herself by saying, with no emotion in her voice; it's a warning, one to save both herself and her daughter. "Don't make this hard for you."

"I loved her. You loved her," Gen points out, but it's almost accusatory, her tone of voice.

Shaw meets Gen's eyes, her own cold and emotionless. "No, I didn't."

Gen, momentarily lost, stumbles backward. "You're lying," she says, weakly.

"No." Shaw knows she's had this talk with Gen before—that Shaw doesn't feel, doesn't love, doesn't know what to do with emotions and tears and feelings like other people do—but this time it's different. Gen's older, wiser, and more vulnerable to hurt.

"But—you love me," Gen says, says it like it's a question, voice cracking, and tears beginning to surface, "don't you?"

Shaw sighs. "Gen, it's late," she replies, turning back to her papers. "Finish your homework before we go home."

Gen's angry footsteps are the only reply Shaw gets, along with the sounds of muffled tears. Gen's young; words mean everything to her, and Shaw knows it. But Shaw only watches her daughter leave, jaw clenched, and doesn't say anything else.

(She doesn't even know what she can say.)

Root doesn't show up at the shelter today, so when it comes to closing time, Shaw is left alone with a sulking, teary-eyed Gen (who comes with more attitude than necessary). Shaw is also left with the painful realization that she was expecting Root, which is not a favorable thought.

"You can call Root if you want," Shaw says, after she and Gen are in the car and Gen is refusing to look at her mother. "When you get home." It's a pity offering, a distraction, but Gen takes her up on it when they get home, disappearing into her room with that blasted cell phone Shaw regrets buying.

Shaw halfheartedly makes dinner. She knows Gen won't eat it. So she sits down on the couch, watching shitty action movies and eating tasteless pasta, and wondering how much worse she can get at this whole parenting thing.

.

.

.

Root makes up with Hanna.

She can't stay mad forever, she knows. And Hanna is confused, and adjusting. Root understands. But Root can't forgive Hanna for constantly invalidating Root's sexuality, or trying to set her up despite it all, and Hanna understands that too. They've reached a standstill.

(And it's enough to drink tequila shots when they should be eating dinner.)

Hanna's face sours after her fourth. "I can't, I can't," she practically begs. "No more."

Root laughs, taking the shot glass out of Hanna's hand. "Okay, no more," she agrees. "You're a lightweight."

"You're the lightweight," Hanna retorts. "Who cried during The Notebook when drunk?"

"I cried because it sucked so much!"

"You called the rain scene a creation of beautiful genius. Don't lie," Hanna snickers, dissolving into giggles, which Root echoes. They fall back on the floor of Root's apartment, trailing off into thoughtful silence. Then, "Root?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you," Hanna says, turning her head to look at her best friend. "I'm sorry I hurt you so bad."

"I'm sorry too," Root echoes. "Well, I'm sorry you're an asshole."

Hanna grins. "Jerk."

Root grins back, about to reply, but then her cell phone starts to ring. For a second, her brow furrows in confusion, because it's late and no one calls her except Harold and Hanna (and Harold is teaching a class). Well, and Gen. Gen. Gen must be calling! Root flounders on the floor for a while, seeking the phone, until she finally gets it.

"Hello? Gen? Gen, hi!" Root exclaims, and Hanna winces at how loud Root's voice comes out as. Root whispers a soft sorry and lowers her voice. "How are you? It's late. It is late, isn't it? Wow—hold on, what? Your mom—Gen, you know how she gets. I don't know her very well and I know—no, of course it's not your fault. Do you want me to come over? I'll come over. Sit tight!"

Hanna props herself up on her elbows and watches Root scramble to get shoes on, all in quiet amusement. "Hot date?" she jokes.

"Gen called," Root says in lieu of explanation, grabbing her coat. "You can stay over if you want. Finish up shots, go to sleep, eat whatever..."

"Who's Gen?"

And then Root remembers Sameen Shaw and her wonderful daughter and the shelter and dogs and Harold and John (and she realizes Hanna is separate from that world).

"She's a kid," Root begins, but pauses. "And a...friend?"

Hanna is more confused than anything. "Since when do you like kids?"

"Gen's different. I, uh, know her mom," Root offers.

Hanna doesn't say much at first, just a soft hum, but as Root opens the door to leave it hits all at once. "Oh my God, you like her!" Hanna shrieks, sitting up in all her tipsy glory. "You want to get it on with a mother! Are you into older women? Is that it?"

"Sameen isn't old," Root says defensively. "Bye, Hanna."

(Hanna whistles and yells something too inappropriate to register as Root finally leaves.)

Gen lets Root into her house, and Root sees the red-rimmed eyes and runny nose and her heart aches, so she tugs Gen into a hug and lets the girl lead her into Gen's bedroom and tell Root everything.

(Root makes eye contact with Shaw as they pass by the living room, and Shaw doesn't look upset, or mad, or anything; her face is blank, emotionless, and Root doesn't know if that is a good alternative.)

.

.

.

"John's babysitting tonight," Shaw informs Gen as they drive to school the next day. Gen's managed to keep freezing Shaw out since last night, but when Shaw tells her the news, Gen breaks.

"I'm not a baby. I can take care of myself," Gen says haughtily.

Shaw snorts. "Yeah, okay."

Gen huffs into her fist, turning her face away until her cheek is pressed against the cold window. "Can't Root babysit?" she mumbles after a while.

Shaw grips the steering wheel a little tighter. "Root's busy," she lies (because she doesn't know). "Besides, you like John."

"He's boring," Gen whines. "He likes to watch action movies and he only knows how to make cereal."

"Don't lie, I know he lets you stay awake past your bedtime and eat ice cream for dinner." Shaw rolls her eyes, because honestly, Gen underestimates the way Shaw gets people to talk.

Gen flushes, caught in the lie, but goes stern a second later. "I still want Root to babysit."

Shaw sighs. "You can't keep bothering Root," she says, and she knows it's mostly her own fault; John's cold, and emotionless in his own way, and with Shaw for a mother, Gen gets enough of the stiff, motioned care. Root's different; she's bursting with life, with foolish joy, with excitement. Gen isn't used to being around people like that. Even Carter, though she understands maternity and shows her love, can often be tired and strung-out after a long day at the homicide department.

"Root doesn't mind. She's my friend," Gen insists. "And she likes you."

"She's a pain in the ass, too," Shaw says, but it's said less scornfully than usual. "Also, don't repeat that."

Gen rolls her eyes this time. "Can I just call her and see if she's busy?"

"No. John's already bringing Zoe over tonight, and I'm not going to make him reschedule," Shaw replies as she pulls into Gen's school extra carefully.

Gen hesitates, because she loves Zoe and John doesn't bring her around often. "Okay, whatever," she says, acting as though she doesn't care. "But next time I'm calling Root."

"Tell you what," Shaw says instead, "I'll talk to her. Ask her if she'd be interested in babysitting more often if she has time."

Gen brightens, just a little, before she seemingly remembers she's supposed to be mad at her mom. The most Gen allows is a hesitant glance before she gets out of the car and heads to school, which Shaw takes as a go-ahead on her own part.

(Shaw doesn't call until she's on break at work.)

"Hello?" Root's voice comes in, weary of the unknown number.

"Root?"

Root's voice becomes surprised. "Sameen?"

"Gen, uh, had your number saved, so," Shaw shrugs, "hi."

"Hi," Root sounds entirely too happy. "What are you up to?"

Shaw's eyes dart around the break room. "Working," she says flatly. From the other side of the break room window, Cole motions at the phone in Shaw's hand in dramatic disbelief, which Shaw rolls her eyes at. "What about you?" she asks, looking away from Cole.

"Just finished up working on a computer. I'm going to take my lunch," Root says, but her tone turns devious. "So what's the reason for calling? Does phone sex help you work better?"

Shaw frowns. "Every time I think I tolerate you, you get worse."

"So you tolerate me?" Even over the phone, Root's tone is insufferably flirty.

"No. Bear does, though, so I trust his judgment," Shaw says, half-serious, and she's alarmed when she realizes she's glad to hear Root's airy laugh follow. "Listen, I have a question."

"I'm all ears."

"Gen likes having you around, for some reason," Shaw begins, and nearly frowns at how mean that sounds, and then does frown when she realizes she's trying not to be mean to Root. "And I guess John and Carter don't want to babysit her forever. They have lives and stuff. So Gen wanted me to ask you if you'd be interested in the job."

There's a long pause. Then, "So I don't have a life?"

"You watch Disney movies when drunk. I don't really know."

"Aah, there's something you don't know about me, then," Root's voice lowers, "Sameen. I also like to watch cheesy romance flicks while drunk, not just Disney."

Shaw scoffs. "Even worse."

"If you need a babysitter, I'm all yours," Root says, happily. "And if you just need me—"

"Goodbye, Root," Shaw says, scowling.

"What? No thank you?"

But Shaw's already hanging up. And she may or may not be adding Root's phone number to her contacts. Which is nothing to be ashamed of. Root is a prospective babysitter, after all. Shaw needs to be in contact with her. That's it.

And so Shaw sends a text that reads, busy tomorrow?

The reply reads, for you? never.

.

.

.

Bear takes an obscenely long time to pee.

It's New York, and it's January. It's cold. Root doesn't appreciate that the job of taking Bear out has been left to her, but Shaw isn't in the shelter tonight and Harold had taken one look at Root and reminded her (as if he hadn't done it continuously before) that the whole volunteering-at-the-shelter is her own fault. So. Here she is.

"Root?"

At the unfamiliar voice, Root turns, only to meet Joss Carter's eyes. "Oh, hello," Root says, trying her best to look polite and put-together (despite the fact that there is a dog tugging on a leash in her hand and wandering around just to find a spot to pee in).

"Shaw sent me," Carter says, as if she needs a reason to justify her appearance. "She asked me to stop by, see how you and Finch were doing,"

"Well, we haven't burned down the shelter yet," Root jokes, "but I'll keep you posted."

Carter looks unamused by the joke. "Right. Listen, Root, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but Shaw isn't someone you can mess around with. Especially if Gen's talking about you like you hung the stars."

Root wants to be serious, she really does, but a laugh escapes her anyway. "Are you giving me the shovel talk?"

Carter narrows her eyes, lips pursing. "Is that funny to you?"

"No, of course not," Root tries to rectify the situation, but she's still smiling. "I just didn't expect it. Sameen and I aren't anything."

"Oh really?" Carter challenges, eyebrows quirked skeptically.

"I'm afraid she's all yours, Joss," Root says sweetly. "Not for a lack of trying on my part, but still."

Carter's mouth falls open, as if to argue, but she hesitates. "I...knew it," she says instead, shaking her head to herself before fixing her eyes sternly on Root. "You planning something?"

"No." The answer is innocent enough, but by the way Carter stares, one would think Root said yes.

"Fine. Keep your plans," Carter mutters vehemently. "I don't trust you, but I trust Shaw. And if she thinks you're worth keeping around, I guess I can't stop her."

"I'm flattered," Root says, "in any case." As Bear finally finishes peeing, Root tugs his leash in the direction of the shelter, giving Carter a small smile. "It's nice to formally meet you, Joss. Tell Taylor hi for me."

"How do you know my boy's name?" Carter asks suspiciously. "And mine?"

"I wasn't aware you were keeping yourself a secret," is Root's reply as she walks away with Bear, throwing her final words over her shoulder. "If you are, maybe you should try a little harder."

Harold looks up from his computer—which is an unlikely occurrence—when Root enters the shelter. He watches as Root unclips the leash, then lets Bear settle between his legs, but he looks cautious, yet inquisitive.

"Ms. Groves," he finally murmurs, "are you quite alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Root takes off her coat, fluffing out her hair. "I just formally met Jocelyn Carter."

"Did she say something? I know she's rather protective of Ms. Shaw," Harold says, worriedly.

"Don't worry, Harry. I'm a big girl, I can handle the bullies on the playground," says Root as she walks over to Shaw's desk, where Harold is sitting. "What are you reading up on?"

"I'm shopping, actually," Harold sighs, looking pained. "I'm afraid, with how often I volunteer here, I may actually have to stock up on dog care items."

"You can always go to the stores. I'll take you," Root offers.

Harold closes his browser, briefly flashing a dog toy selection online. "You know I don't like in-store shopping," he says, but he doesn't refuse, so Root takes that to mean he'll go.

.

.

.

"Sorry I missed Christmas. Did you get everything you wished for, little girl?"

Shaw rolls her eyes and halfheartedly shoves at Zoe Morgan's arm. "Fuck off," she says, but her eyes are light. "You didn't tell me you were coming."

"I like surprises." Zoe drops her coat in John's waiting hands as she walks in to Shaw's house. "Where's Gen?"

"Finishing homework. I'd tell her you're here, but then I'd never get a chance to talk to you again," Shaw says, shutting the door. "Reese," she greets John, with a nod his way.

"Shaw." The corner of John's lips tickle upwards in his version of a smile. "Is Root here?"

"No. Why would she be?" Shaw asks suspiciously.

"She seems to be stuck to your side, lately," John remarks lightly.

Shaw is about to argue, but then Zoe calls her attention again.

"You and Gen were getting busy with the cheesy holiday stuff, weren't you?" Zoe says, looking over the pictures stuck to the fridge. "I didn't know your drawing got so bad, Shaw."

Shaw walks into the kitchen herself, and she shakes her head at the sight of the decorated printer paper taped to her fridge. "That was Root," she says. "I don't do that stuff."

"Root. The mysterious woman Carter swears is a psychopath?" Zoe asks, quizzically studying the drawings with a renewed interest.

"Yeah, well, Carter also swears Root's sweet on me, so." Shaw shrugs. "You want something to eat? I made chicken."

Zoe toys with the edge of Gen's drawing. "So you don't draw with Gen?"

"No." Shaw's eyebrows furrow. "What of it?"

"Nothing. It's just—you like to draw. I thought you'd be into that kind of thing," Zoe says, before she changes the subject. "Any chance that chicken's still warm?"

"Lukewarm. I'll heat it up."

John places a hand on Shaw's elbow. "Let me. You two catch up," he suggests.

"Don't burn it," Shaw warns, and John gives her a brief smile that says no promises.

She leads Zoe into the living room, but not before grabbing two beers from the fridge and offering Zoe one.

"No thanks. I'd rather be sober," Zoe declines, taking a seat on the couch.

Shaw eyes Zoe, suddenly suspicious. "You never want to be sober for anything."

"Except my impending motherhood, unfortunately."

Shaw's eyebrows skyrocket. "You're pregnant?"

"Yes." Zoe fiddles with her shirt bottom. "It wasn't...planned."

"Obviously not, if you're with John. Who would plan to birth his spawn?"

That brings a little huff of a laugh out of Zoe's lips. "He's surprised," she chuckles. "Maybe thrilled about it. I'm freaking out enough for the both of us, it seems."

"So you're not thrilled about it," Shaw notes.

"I...can get used to the idea," Zoe corrects. "I've thought about it. Who hasn't?" Then she smiles, sheepishly, at Shaw. "Sorry. Of course not everyone has. But John and I, we talked about it before. We've even talked marriage. But at the end of the day, we're not married, and this baby is definitely not one we anticipated."

"Marriage? To John?" Shaw's skeptical, and acts as though it's because John is so lame (he isn't, really—he's decent), but she's more worried about their relationship. John and Zoe have been off and on for four years, and it never seems to end (or start) well.

"He's brought it up more and more, since we found out I was pregnant," sighs Zoe. "I guess he feels obligated to me now. It's honorable, I guess. It's John. But I don't want that to be my life. I want him without a reason to stay."

"Whoa, hey, I'm not good with all...that," Shaw says awkwardly. She's never been one to want a life with someone else. She can't fathom the idea of it, sometimes.

"Right. Sorry." Zoe pauses, then cranes her neck back to check if John's done with the food yet. When she sees he isn't, she turns back to Shaw. "He's a good man, though. I know that."

"Sure," Shaw says, because honestly, she'd trust John Reese with her life (though she prays it would never come to that, because he's also a thick-headed idiot).

"So what's the deal with the Root girl?" Zoe asks, both as a change of subject and out of sheer curiosity.

"Ugh. You need to stop talking to Carter," Shaw complains.

Zoe smirks. "Uh-oh, is the big bad Sameen Shaw falling for a woman?"

"She's a pain in the ass," Shaw says. "I'm hardly falling for her. She just hangs out with Gen sometimes. Gets the kid better than I do, most days. And she's...not bad company. I guess."

Zoe's smirks only grows. "That's Shaw for I want to kiss her."

"You fucking—"

John takes that moment to join them, with two plates in hand. "You know, I think I would be afraid of the friendship between you two if I didn't know you," he says as he passes Zoe a plate. He offers Shaw the other, but she waves it away, so he settles to eat it himself.

"Fuck off, John," both Shaw and Zoe chorus.

(John smirks and keeps eating.)

"Carter says she gave Root the shovel talk," Zoe says, suddenly, just remembering. "She doesn't trust Root a lot."

"The shovel talk?" John echoes.

"Yeah, you know, when you go up to your friend's potential girlfriend and say 'if you hurt her, I hurt you'," explains Zoe through a mouthful of chicken.

Shaw, feeling strangely alarmed at the prospect, quickly cuts in, "What? Why?"

"Don't worry, Root's in one piece. Carter wasn't carrying," Zoe jokes.

Shaw sighs. "You idiots need to stop getting into my social life."

"Wait, so you actually have one of those?"

Shaw flips her off, but Zoe laughs so damn hard it makes no difference.

.

.

.

Root takes in a deep breath before she says, "Sameen?"

Shaw takes a while to reply; on the days when the shelter is mostly empty, she usually bathes and brushes the hair of new dogs that they take in. "What?" she finally asks, continuing to brush out a dog's hair.

"I have to ask you something."

Shaw still is more preoccupied with the dog. "If it's about babysitting Gen tonight, I'm sure it can wait," she says as she unfurls another snarl in the dog's wet fur.

"It's not that." Root hesitates, because she's going for it. She's taking an impossible leap of faith—and she's going to ask Shaw out. "It's kind of bigger than that. Maybe a little too—"

"Spit it out, Root," Shaw mutters, frustrated, as she buries her fingers firmly in wet dog hair, trying to get a good grasp on the brush at the same time.

Root hesitates before she blurts out, "I want you to go on a date with me."

For a moment, everything is quiet. Shaw is still trying to brush out the dog's hair, unfazed, as if she didn't hear Root's question. Root waits almost a full minute before she opens her mouth as if to ask again, in case Shaw didn't hear—

"You didn't even ask anything," Shaw says, cutting Root off without knowing it. "That makes two things you suck at—winking and asking people out."

Root, who is currently a nervous mess, relaxes a tiny bit. "Only two things?"

"Well," Shaw tilts her head, with her version of a smile on her lips, "maybe not only two. Your cooking is pretty bad, too."

Root laughs, weakly. She isn't sure what this means, that Shaw's avoiding the (not) question. "I can ask you properly," Root suggests. "If you want."

Shaw finally sets the brush down. "Look, Root," she sighs. "You're...a decent human being. But I don't date."

This is news to Root, and she deflates all at once. "Oh," Root says. "I just thought, since you and Martine—"

Shaw whips her head around to stare at Root, eyes wide. "Who told you about her?" she demands. "Was it Gen?"

"Um, Harold knew," Root lies quickly, even when she knows Harold will hate her for throwing him under the bus. "It's...it wasn't a secret, was it?"

"Martine is none of your business." A pause. "Or Harold's," Shaw adds, as an afterthought.

"You're right. I'm sorry," Root apologizes, genuinely apologetic.

Shaw goes right back at brushing the dog's hair. "You know what, I don't care," she says after a tense moment, almost a full minute later. "It's fine if you know. It's not a secret."

Root, feeling a need to explain herself, says, "I don't really know much."

Any other person would see that as a prompt to speak, but Shaw just shrugs. "Well, you can tell Harold I don't care he knows either," she says. "Gen's the only one who cares."

"That you don't date," Root reiterates. "Just almost get married."

"I proposed because Martine wanted me to, and then she was pissed I didn't mean it," Shaw snaps. "That stuff just doesn't mean shit to me."

Root grins. "Is that your version of 'I don't like labels'?"

"It means I can't give you what you want, and it's better if you figure that out now before you start demanding I go and buy you an expensive ring," Shaw corrects, and she sets the brush down and gets up off the floor, brushing stray dog hair off her thighs. "Plus, you creep me out."

"In a very attractive way?" Root suggests impishly, and she grins wider as Shaw rolls her eyes.

"Fuck off," Shaw mutters, then whistles for the just-brushed dog to enter his cage. "Do something useful and hose off the maltese three doors down, would you?"

"Whatever you want, sweetie." Root slides open the lock and the small dog inside eagerly follows her to a basin where she prepares some water.

Shaw frowns at the pet name, but doesn't argue against it. Instead, she mumbles, "You don't have to be weird or anything around me though. We can be friends, I guess."

Root looks up from the water basin, eyes sparkling with mirth. "Oh, so we weren't friends before?" she teases.

"...Shut up. Of course not," grumbles Shaw. "You were weird as hell before."

Root begins to massage soap into the dog's fur, happily. She doesn't care that Shaw turned her down; she can now call Shaw her friend, and that's better than nothing. "And now I'm not?" Root baits.

"Don't make this a big deal. I can still barely stand you," says Shaw, but she says it nonchalantly, like she doesn't really mean it, and Root just smiles.

.

.

.

"John, if you leave your muddy shoes on my carpet again, I'm kicking you out."

John raises his hands defensively. "I didn't—Scout's honor. I have an alibi, detective," he jokes, but Carter just rolls her eyes and looks at Zoe anyway.

"He left them outside," Zoe assures her, and Carter finally sits down.

Shaw keeps staring at the TV, trying to block their voices out of her head. She doesn't really care about football, but between that or John and Zoe's baby talk, she'll take the Super Bowl any day.

"Mom, why are those guys angry?" Gen asks, also staring at the TV.

Shaw takes a swig of beer. "Do your homework, Gen."

"I am." Gen scribbles a few words on the notebook balanced on her knees, but doesn't really make an effort to focus. It's Shaw's fault for bringing her to Carter's, she knows, but at the very least, Gen can try to put in a little more effort.

"Hey John, I think Taylor is a great name for your future kid," says Taylor, Carter's son, as he hangs over the sofa John and Zoe are seated on.

"Taylor, are you watching the food?" Carter asks, frowning when she hears her son's voice.

"Yes, Mom, I am." Taylor looks back at John expectantly. "So what do you think?"

"I'm not naming any of my children after you, Taylor."

Taylor pouts. "But I can be a cool uncle!"

"Nice try. You're the cousin." Carter swats at Taylor's arms, which have dropped onto her shoulders. "Now go make sure the food isn't burning."

"It's not. I checked!"

"Go check again."

Shaw raises the volume of the TV. "Can you guys shut up?" she asks. "I'm watching this."

"You don't even like football," Zoe scoffs.

"I like it better than you idiots."

Gen starts erasing frantically. "Mom, I messed up. Can you help me?"

"No."

"Shaw, help your kid," Carter says, scandalized.

Shaw rolls her eyes and takes the notebook. "What'd you mess up on?" she asks, gruffly, and starts to scribble math answers before Gen even replies.

"Mom, I said to help me, not do my homework!"

"Come here, honey. I'll help you," Carter says, and Gen takes the notebook away from Shaw in favor of squeezing in next to Carter on the big armchair.

The baby talk starts up again. John suggests a wedding date—just a small gathering, he promises, with only the people in the room if Zoe would prefer that. (Zoe looks like she's just sucked on a lemon after John suggests that.)

"I think it'd be best to do it quicker," John says, not noticing the frantic looks Zoe tries to send Shaw, begging Shaw to change the subject (which Shaw ignores, because she's watching the fucking game).

Zoe discreetly fixes her features to normal as John looks at her. "Oh, sure, yeah," she coughs. "It's just...too soon, don't you think?"

"Do you need water?" John asks, concerned, ready to get up.

"No—I'm fine." Zoe stands up. "I just need a minute. Shaw?"

Shaw sighs and tears her eyes away from the TV. "What?"

"I said I need a minute."

Shaw rolls her eyes and stands up, discreetly locking eyes with Carter, who only purses her lips in silent agreement: John needs to back down.

"Taylor," Carter says, "why don't you show John your new airplane model your dad brought?" As Taylor eagerly drags John up, Carter brushes the stray hairs off Gen's forehead behind small ears and adds, "You go too Gen. Make sure Taylor checks on the food when you're all done."

Gen gladly escapes her math homework, and it's only when Taylor's bedroom door is sealed shut that Zoe buries her face in her hands and groans.

"I don't know what I've done," she bemoans. "I've created a monster."

"Well, you're on your way," Shaw says, gesturing to Zoe's stomach, but Carter glares at her for the comment so she wisely doesn't continue.

"Zoe," Carter begins, ever the voice of reason, "maybe it's time you and John call it quits."

Zoe lifts her head up, befuddled, like the thought hadn't occurred to her. "But we're having a baby."

"Yes, but you're not getting permanently handcuffed to the guy," Carter chuckles, mostly at the mental image, before sobering. "If you won't be happy marrying him, the least you can do is let him know. Because if John traps you into a loveless marriage, he's going to put all that blame on himself. And he's one of my best friends; I can't let you put him through that."

"I love him," Zoe protests. "I know I do. Things have just been really tense lately. This baby's the only thing we've discussed in weeks."

Shaw is feeling quite cornered at this point, and it's not even her they're discussing. She hates relationship talk, and is busy plotting her quickest way to escape ASAP (option four, faking her death, seems pretty foolproof), but then Carter snaps her fingers.

"Shaw," Carter repeats, probably for the second or third time. "I said, what do you think?"

Shaw blinks. "What?"

"Oh, don't mind her, she's high off all the lady love she's been getting," Zoe laughs, puckering her lips and making kissing noises, which Carter laughs at more than the comment.

"Shut up. Root's a friend," Shaw snaps. "I don't do—"

"—relationships," both Zoe and Carter chorus, and Zoe rolls her eyes, hard. "It seems to me like you're pretty invested in this Root woman. You two hang out with Gen a lot, and the kid adores her. Say what you will, but I think she's getting under your skin."

"And it's probably not the only thing she wants to get under," Carter says, straight-faced, and Zoe nearly falls off the couch, cackling.

"Did you just make a dirty joke? Joss Carter, who are you?!"

Shaw turns back to the game, and cranks the volume up higher. "What are you guys, twelve?" she grumbles, but if she checks her phone a few times to check if Root's texted throughout the night, well, that's her business.

.

.

.

fusco's not even in this...he'll be added in the next (and final) installment of this, if i tweak it a bit (so it includes less hanna for sure, but i'm a slut for root having friendships). sorry my characterization is shit (bc i mostly capture shaw's prickly, people-hating side and she's so much more) but i will also try and fix that the best way i can. idk when the next part's coming out though. probably in another year. feel free to come rant to me about poi ending at djsugar on tumblr