She feels fuzzy, heavy. Warm. Awareness comes slowly. She wonders for a second if she's been drugged. But there's no pain from an injection, she's not tied up, she's in her own bed, and she can hear Root in the kitchen. She blinks a few times, squinting against the golden-yellow early morning sunlight filling the room.
Just … sleepy, Shaw finally decides. Not tired. The sort of soft sleepiness that comes with waking up slowly when her body decides it's ready and a good full night of sleep.
It's odd, for her. Usually she snaps instantly into alertness, taking in everything around her and ready to face any threats. Feeling comfortable and safe enough to fully let her guard down like this is rare.
Though it has been happening more often recently.
She props herself up on her elbow to check the clock sitting next to the lava lamp on the bedside table. It's early still, earlier even than her alarm would've woken her if Root hadn't turned it off. She seemed to think Shaw needed a good rest after chasing a number across the country and back.
A feeling of sluggish heaviness fills her when she considers getting up to join Root. Maybe she wasn't entirely wrong.
Judging by the sounds from the kitchen she's still in the process of cooking breakfast. And she'll undoubtedly come to get Shaw when it's ready.
So she lets herself fall back onto the pillow and into the feeling of hazy warmth, almost instantly slipping into a fuzzy half-sleep.
/
Some time later – she can't be sure exactly how long – she becomes aware of the half-closed bedroom door creaking open, and light footsteps approaching the bed.
"Hey, sleepyhead." Root's voice is low, soft. It floats though the sleepy fog surrounding her.
She thinks of reaching out to pull Root back into bed. Or maybe just asking her. Just for the extra warmth. She tries, but gets out only a formless groan.
Root's hand touches her face ever so lightly, then her thumb brushes some stray hair from Shaw's face. "Sameen." Finally she cracks an eye open.
"Mmhmm."
"Good morning, sweetie," Root says as a brilliant smile spreads across her face. "I made pancakes."
Suddenly, Shaw feels much more awake.
"Well, why didn't you say that earlier?"
/
Breakfast is mostly silent, as usual.
Shaw is too busy devouring her almost comically large portion of pancakes for conversation, and Root is too captivated watching her. As usual.
She pauses between bites to look at Root. Instead of her dreamy fascination, she's wearing a more restrained look of contentment while she carefully studies Shaw's face. She notices Shaw looking at her and the content smile twists into a little smirk.
"Miss my cooking while you were away?"
Shaw doesn't answer right away. She takes a second to slice off a bit of pancake and spear it on her fork. She looks Root dead in the eye and says "No." Then she shoves the forkful of syrupy pancake into her mouth, holding eye contact while she chews it.
/
They clean up the dishes together. Shaw doesn't really pay attention to her work, or the half of a conversation between Root and the Machine she can hear. Instead, she focuses on Root's effortless movements as she dances around the kitchen putting the dishes away. On the strands of hair that have come loose from her messy bun to frame her face and fall around her neck. On the way the sun will sometimes catch her eyes just right and light them a brilliant burning gold.
Root notices Shaw staring at her of course. She doesn't question Shaw about it, though. She's annoyingly understanding like that sometimes. Allowing Shaw time to process whatever it is she's thinking about.
"We're gonna need to go shopping later," is all Root says.
Shaw grunts in response.
It's all very routine.
Shopping at the same grocery store every weekend. Taking the same route, after they've done the same weekly check of their security systems. Maybe next weekend Root will be feeling lazy and get breakfast from the café across the street. But she'll bring it to the same apartment, theirapartment, that she always does.
Predictability is dangerous. Routines are dangerous. Staying in one place, getting too attached is dangerous. Shaw learned this with the ISA. This kind of thing should make Shaw's skin crawl.
But it doesn't.
Somehow, she's stumbled into making an actual home with Root. Not just somewhere to sleep, but an actual place of their own. A refuge away from the rest of the world. Complete with a lava lamp and shag carpet. But now that she's been exposed to Root's atrocious taste in interior decoration, she can't imagine it any other way.
Shaw realizes she's been wiping the same spot on the counter for a couple minutes. She tosses the cloth in the sink and decides acting like she hadn't just spaced out is the best course of action.
"I want clean my guns first. Do you have any you need to do?"
Root smiles at her indulgently. "I'll get the cleaning kit."
/
Shaw's sitting across the kitchen table from Root. A pile of guns and cleaning supplies spread out before them. She's going through the motions of cleaning a Glock while she contemplates talking to Root.
She actually cares about telling Root things like this.
And she doesn't struggle to express herself. Sometimes she has trouble putting things in a way people will understand, but she's never had that problem with Root. Root pays attention to her, Root really listens to her, Root gets her.
So she sets the Glock down and goes for it. She nudges Root's foot in a way that might almost seem accidental. Once they make eye contact, Shaw speaks quietly and steadily.
"It's good to be home."
Root keeps their eyes locked for a long, silent moment. Shaw almost wants to look away. Then Root's thoughtful look breaks into a wide smile and Shaw knows that somehow, she gets it.