When Root opened her eyes, she found herself on a hard table with a pillow underneath her head, and a cold compress beneath her neck.
"Good morning, Ms. Groves." Harold came into view beside her, a water bottle in hand. "How are you feeling?"
"Where…am I?" Root's throat felt like cotton and she coughed once. The action sent pain lancing through her shoulder, and Root remembered being shot and then knocked unconscious by Shaw.
"The subway station," Harold supplied helpfully, his glasses glinting in the light. "Specifically my computer table."
Root looked around and didn't see anyone else. "Where's…Shaw?" she whispered, a note of worry creeping into her voice.
"Ms. Shaw is asleep in the train car," Harold answered. "She told me to wake her if anything changed, but personally I think it would be better we didn't." He unscrewed the cap and placed the bottle next to her. "To say she was displeased when she walked in here would be an understatement."
"Is she…all right?" The Machine hadn't told Root whether Shaw would make it back safely if she brought Root with her. Conditional probability and the like.
"Ms. Shaw is fine," Harold replied, glancing briefly in the direction of the subway car. "But she said you lost a lot of blood."
Root decided not to tell him Shaw had almost been killed on the street. "Shaw did this?" she asked instead, looking down at her bandages.
"Yes," Harold confirmed, sounding slightly uncomfortable. "Although I must say, surgery is not high on my list of things to see again."
"Did I bleed all over your table, Harry?" Root didn't bother to hide her amusement.
"No, you bled all over the getaway car we were in," Shaw said from behind Harold, her voice a mixture of disapproval and anger.
"Ms. Shaw, I'd prefer if you wouldn't sneak up on me," Harold said, taking a step back.
"Can't help it if you don't hear my footsteps, Finch." Shaw moved to stand beside the table, her eyes trained on Root's shoulder. "Next time you try to run me over? I'm leaving you where you drop."
Harold said something about needing to work on the computer and went into the train car.
"In my defence," Root said, slightly embarrassed. "I was trying to escape, not run you over."
Shaw looked like she wanted to punch something. "You think you can just decide what's best for everyone? Show up, get in the way and then disappear?" Both women knew that wasn't what she was really upset about, but neither mentioned it.
Root closed her eyes momentarily, tuning out the pain. "I was protecting you," she said. "Only because of the circumstances," she added quickly when saw Shaw's eyes narrow. "But bringing me here wasn't a smart move."
"I didn't ask your opinion," Shaw retorted, her eyes hard and unforgiving. "And even if you hadn't come, I could have handled myself."
Root knew that wasn't true, but she let Shaw believe her actions had been unnecessary. "The getaway car?" she asked.
"Taken care of," Shaw said sharply. "You think I'm running amateur hour here?"
Concern for your welfare isn't lack of faith, Sameen, Root wanted to say, but she thought better of it, instead deciding to try and sit up.
Ever observant, Shaw placed a firm hand on her healthy shoulder, halting the action. "Stay down," she said, not unkindly. "You were right about one of the bullets nicking an artery. And there was only so much saline I had to give you."
Root stayed obediently still, until Shaw removed her hand. "There's somewhere I need to be."
"Seriously? The Machine's giving you instructions now?" From her position on the table, Root couldn't tell if Shaw was indignant on her behalf or angry with her. Perhaps both.
"It's important," Root said earnestly, then smiled. "And I trust your medical skills, Sameen."
Shaw rolled her eyes, and scoffed, "What can you do with one arm?"
Root thought about being truthful: that if she didn't change identities now and go where her new persona was supposed to be, she would be forced to stay underground for several days. In that time, Samaritan could discover how her exception worked – all it would take was one human operative finding her new identification and comparing it to the face of Samantha Groves that Greer had on record. She couldn't allow that.
"Don't worry, Sam; nothing taxing." Root had learned long ago that believable lies and manipulation worked much better than the truth, especially when you told people what they wanted to hear.
Shaw's expression clearly indicated disbelief, but she tossed a sling at Root anyway. "It's your funeral," she said, and an understanding passed between them. "I'm not stitching you up again."
"You've done more than enough," Root insisted, meaning every word. Then, allowing herself a moment of playful banter, she said with a seductive smile on her face, "Besides, I've been wanting to experience your needlework for awhile now."
Shaw shook her head, but moved to help as Root tried to sit up, surprisingly gentle despite the pent up frustration and unresolved betrayal Root knew she must be feeling. "Be careful," she said, sounding concerned for the first time. "No running. Rest if you feel tired. And keep it clean."
Root's smile grew as Shaw watched her fiddle with the sling for several moments, before losing patience and putting it on for her. "Whoever said you didn't make a good doctor just wasn't giving you the right patients."
"Whatever," Shaw said dismissively, throwing her an assortment of pills and dressings. "That should be enough. Although honestly Root, if you can stand on your own, I'll take my hat off." Root wasn't sure if she detected a slight smirk in Shaw's tone.
"Don't have faith in me, Sameen?"
"I took both slugs out, so I know how much damage was done," Shaw said, momentarily grave. "It'll hurt if you move. I'm not kidding."
"I'll be fine," Root said, holding her arm close, and deliberately ignoring Shaw's assessment along with the fact that dull throbbing had turned into sharp pain. "She says you did a good job."
Shaw stood back as Root carefully got to her feet, fighting off a wave of dizziness and nausea as she stood upright. She took a few steadying breaths, swaying only slightly as she took a step forward. "Could you get my long overcoat?"
Harold came into view as Shaw was draping the coat over Root's shoulders. Her injuries, Root was pleased to note, were hidden from view. "Should you be up so soon, Ms. Groves?" he asked, in a rare show of concern.
"I told her to lie down," Shaw chimed in, raising an eyebrow. "But apparently she has a mission of great importance."
Harold frowned, and Root remembered a conversation they'd had in a hotel room, about placing Her will before her wellbeing. "You do look pale, Ms. Groves," he said, pausing for a beat. "But if there's something you need to do." Harold gestured towards the exit in a way that sent Root right back to that day in the library, only things had seemed so much simpler then.
Root smiled. "I knew you'd understand, Harry," she said brightly.
Shaw rolled her eyes again, but as Root made to leave, she reached out and gave Root's sleeve a gentle tug. Their eyes met as Shaw began buttoning her coat, and in that moment Root knew: Shaw hadn't forgiven her for the drugging last time, nor would she openly thank her for interfering this time – in fact, she may never approve of her methodology, especially from the receiving end – but she'd begun to understand why Root had acted the way she did.
And that made what lay ahead bearable.
"Be safe," she said to both of them, turning to face the wind.