Thanks for reading!
I hope that you all like this chapter - I've spent quite some time trying to decide if this is the best way to handle the upcoming scenes and I really hope that it is!
Shaw was alone.
The dark-haired woman turned off the shower after standing for far too long under the stream of hot water.
Without bothering to grab the towel first, she moved to look at the mirror, fogged up with steam. Reaching out, she swiped the glass clear and saw her own face. Noted the gradual changes to her body. Her skin looked too pale and the circles under her eyes were getting worse every day. She didn't sleep much. When she did, she didn't sleep well.
Despite her best efforts to stay in top form while trapped in the subway, she felt like she was disappearing.
It was a relief to watch her reflection fade again in the overheated room. But something in her didn't want relief. She wanted the dull, unnamable ache in her chest.
She reached out and swiped the glass clear again.
If the Machine was watching me here, now, she wondered, What would it see? A soldier? A prisoner? Would it take the same measurements that I take? Note the changes in my skin tone? The signs that I can't sleep? Body mass index? Muscle tone up to snuff?
Her eyes travelled over the mirror, examining the hard muscles that she worked every day for hours. They were strong, but she felt smaller. Like she was wasting away.
As her gaze moved, she caught on the scars that decorated her body.
She reached up with one hand to touch the slick patch on her abdomen. The gut wound from her previous employer. Her lips pursed at the memory as she pulled at the scar to watch the way her skin moved around it. Then she twisted her body, moving on to the scar on her thigh from the time they hadn't killed the senator. Her eyebrows furrowed and she looked to the puckered wound at her shoulder from when she'd been trying to save Gen.
Shaw pressed her fingers against the long-healed wound and grimaced. The scar didn't hurt. No, it actually brought a sort of security to Shaw. Like tattoos, they were a reminder. A series of badges that people would see and know better than to ask about. Just make assumptions and move on, thinking whatever they wanted about Shaw and her dour expressions. And best of all, the scars didn't ever seem to change. They stayed pale and smooth and familiar in their inhuman scaliness.
But it wasn't really true that they didn't change, she reminded herself as she caught sight of another scar out of the corner of her eye. Refusing to look at it, she let her fingertip circle the edge of the wound from the day she met Gen, trying to distract herself from the magnetic pull of the scar she'd glimpsed on her sternum. But it was no use. Gen, of course, led Shaw to thinking of The Order of Lenin.
Which was now with Root.
Shaw's jaw clenched as soon as she pictured Root's face. She ground her teeth at the thought of the woman's coy little smile, those enormous dark eyes that saw everything. She was the Machine's little helper monkey, after all. The ache in Shaw's chest grew and her eyes found the fading ghost of a scar in the center of her chest despite her attempts to avoid thinking about it.
This wound, from Finch's taser, was disappearing.
Sameen covered the scar with the palm of her hand, just as Root had done when she first saw it. Shaw didn't know why that was Root's reaction. The look on Root's face when she had seen the scab had made Shaw feel… what? Angry? Not really. It was something else. Something that made her sick to her stomach to think about.
Shaw swallowed hard. She felt angry now, trying to stop herself from thinking about the fucking emotions that for no reason had decided to start to consume her every time she thought of the woman who had really only ever been a pain in the ass.
There was a whisper from deep in Shaw's brain that pointed out that Root had also saved her repeatedly and helped the whole crew at every turn. Not to mention the fact that she was great in bed. And hot as hell. And smart. And so quick with her two guns that, though Shaw would never admit it, she never failed to impress Shaw. And there was the fact that she was kind. Gentle. When they were alone, anyway. And while that in and of itself was a surprise, what made Shaw more surprised was the fact that sometimes she liked Root's softer side.
Fuck, she cursed internally and let her hand drop to her side.
Would the Machine know what I'm thinking? And would the Machine and Samaritan see the same things if they both looked at me like this? Would they know why my heart feels like it's being crushed in my chest? Shaw wondered, looking her reflection in the eye in the mirror.
Who is this person? Why am I becoming her?
Would the Machine know the answer to that? Does it see down into us? Into me?
Hell, maybe I'm the only one who doesn't understand these things. Maybe I'm blind.
She sighed deeply, dragging the towel over her head to dry her hair.
The Machine, of course, could not see her in the bathroom. Even if it could, she had no idea what the Machine thought of things. If it thought at all.
Once she dressed, Shaw exited the bathroom and walked to the subway car, staring in at the open laptop. The camera that she knew was watching her.
I hope it does see into me. Because I can't. And I don't know what it means that when I think of Root, I can't stop the rush inside me. Adrenaline? Dopamine? Whatever it is, I don't know what to do with that chemical response. Those feelings that keep growing. Getting worse.
Along with the dreams, she thought.
About half the time, she dreamt of one of the members of the Machine's little team in perilous situations: getting caught by Samaritan's shit-headed thugs while the Machine just watched through the glass lens of a camera as Shaw struggled to get to that night's victim. More often than not, that victim was Root. And Shaw was always too late. Sameen would wake up cold, a sheen of chilled sweat over every inch of her body.
The other half of the time, the dreams starred Root in less dangerous but equally compromising situations. In these dreams, Root was in various states of undress. Shaw had no idea at what point the woman had slipped into her subconscious so completely. But on those nights, Sameen was utterly consumed by Root. Her dark eyes, the curl of a smirk on her lips, that perfect nose bumping her own. It was ecstasy. Then she would wake up soaked with sweat. One hand down the front of her underwear, the other gripping the sheets desperately. Or with her pillow clutched tight between her thighs. She would be so hot that she had no choice but to get up and splash icy water on her face and on the back of her neck. She hated that she couldn't stop herself. She hated Root for having done this to her.
Shaw sat down in Finch's chair, listening to the constant hum of the subway station that seemed to get louder every day. It was only ever interrupted by John or Lionel coming with food or asking for her help in dealing with a number, and occasionally by the filthy rats scuttling across the platform. The latter never lasted long: once Bear was sent hurtling their direction they didn't stand much of a chance.
Shaw slid the mouse across the pad at Finch's ever-unoccupied desk, watching his screen come to life and pulling the earbuds towards her from where they rested on his keyboard. She settled in, listening to the aimless sound of quiet rustling through the earbuds, pulling the laptop onto her lap to pick up where she'd left off reading from the laptop's screen. But she couldn't keep her eyes off of Finch's desktop.
Because on his screen, there was a window that she never closed. She'd tried to turn it off for a while, to let it stay shut while she slept at the very least, but the thought of what might happen if she stopped watching kept her up at night. So now, the only time she ever hid it from view was when Fusco or Reese were there. She didn't want either of them asking questions that she didn't know how to answer.
She suddenly realized that it had been a full twenty four hours since she'd last had contact with another human. There had been no text from Root today. No call since their argument a few days earlier, when Shaw had tried to lurch herself out of her malaise and had told Root that she had to get out and feel the sun on her face soon. It had been over a month since she'd been aboveground.
And all Root had done in response was make a joke about Shaw tanning.
Shaw sure as fuck wasn't going to be the one to call Root first. Especially not after the taller woman hadn't taken her seriously. But not hearing from her was making Shaw more antsy. More aggressive with the guys when they did turn up.
It wasn't even that she minded being left alone. She generally liked not having to socialize. But generally, that meant that she was by herself in her apartment, or staking out the next asshole she got to shoot in the knees. This, on the other hand? This was torture. All she had was a pair of computers, the dog, and a space that Root had filled with these moments that Shaw couldn't shake loose. Everything in the station made Shaw think of the taller woman. The shower, the bed, the subway car, her clothes, even the chair she was currently sitting in. Hell, the dog's toys were courtesy of Root. Shaw grit her teeth and refocused her train of thought.
She was hoping it would be John that stopped by today. She genuinely liked John (not that she didn't appreciate Fusco, but the guy couldn't go five minutes without making her want to punch him). John was like the big brother she'd never had.
The Jem to her Scout.
Shit, she thought, and tried not to think about To Kill A Mockingbird: the book that Root had referenced in passing. Shaw didn't even know if Root realized how true the association had been. She shook her head, refocusing once more on the possibility of a visit from Fusco or Reese.
John. Right.
She liked hearing Reese's detailed accounts of the day's number-saving while she ate whatever food he'd brought that visit. She wasn't sure what she enjoyed more- the foods he'd learned that she preferred or the tales he told of getting to go out and beat the shit out of somebody who really, truly deserved it.
She sighed heavily at the thought, pressing her fingers into her temples as she continued to watch Finch's screen. To Kill a Mockingbird was open on the laptop, but she'd barely read a paragraph all day. She was too busy watching that second screen. The blip that kept slowly moving. This evening it was heading into Utah.
"Is that a map?"
The laptop very nearly fell to the floor as Shaw whirled around to glare at John, tearing the earbuds out of her ears. She hadn't heard him approach.
His eyebrows were furrowed as he looked at Harold's computer, and Shaw turned to close the map that she'd been watching. Because of course he was right.
He had already crossed the subway car and was looking over her shoulder before she had closed it. She could only hope he hadn't understood what he was looking at.
"You've been tracking her this whole time?" John asked, bemused.
Fuck. The swear boiled in Shaw's gut. She regretted admitting to herself that she wanted him to show up sometime. She knew she shouldn't have been surprised: sooner or later she was bound to get caught. As with everything else in life, it was always only a matter of time before something went wrong.
But knowing that John had immediately known that it was Root that she was watching made Shaw squirm inside. Instead of answering, she turned back to glare at him. He raised his eyebrows at her, a mixture of disbelief and amusement clear in his face. It seemed her non-answer was no less of an admission than if she'd spoken. It only made her more pissed.
When did I become so transparent?
"She hasn't figured it out?" he asked in disbelief. Shaw pursed her lips and jerked her chin to shake her head.
"If she had, do you think I'd still be able to see where she is?" Shaw asked sarcastically. His mouth twisted into a smirk but his eyes remained narrow. He looked back to the screen where the map had been.
"How'd you manage that?" He asked. Shaw knew he was probably cataloging Root's possessions- the litany of items that appeared for one identity and disappeared for the next, never to be seen again. Her clothes were costumes, always changing. "Her phone?"
Shaw didn't answer. She could tell from his expression that John didn't seem to think that was possible, and she wasn't about to explain herself. Screw that: he had no need to know.
He did not need to know that she had hidden the tiny tracking device and microphone in the folded ribbon attached to the Order of Lenin that she'd watched Root hang around her neck before she left. He didn't need to know that Shaw had kept the medal to begin with, much less that she had given it to Root because there wasn't a doubt in Shaw's mind that Root would never let it leave her person if Shaw told her not to.
John didn't need to know that. It said too much about Shaw's feelings. No, she reminded herself, it said a lot about Root's feelings. All that it said about Shaw was that she was manipulative. Taking advantage of Root's affection. Shaw didn't even believe this herself as she repeated the lie for the hundredth time that week.
It seemed that Reese knew he wasn't going to get an answer, because he lifted the bag of food and turned to put it on the table.
"You worried about her?" John asked, tearing the paper bag where it had been stapled shut at the top. Shaw glared at him again.
"I'm worried about everything," she replied, terse. He barely looked at her, the slight raise of his eyebrows and the tiny smirk on his mouth making Shaw wish, not for the first time, that she had a gun to threaten him with.
"If something happens, I want to know. And she's not talking to me, so how else am I supposed to make sure she's not getting herself killed?" Shaw asked. "I already have to sit around wondering where the hell Finch is. If he's still alive out there somewhere or if Decima's caught up to another one of us—"
"Not yet, Miss Shaw."
John and Shaw both looked up in surprise. Harold Finch was walking towards the subway car across the platform, looking very tired, but also very much alive and unharmed aside from the limp that never went away.
Bear leapt up from his bed where he had been sound asleep, whining in greeting as he darted to Finch's side and pushed his nose into the palm of Harold's hand.
Reese stood up as well, his face lighting up with relief.
Even Shaw was so happy to see Harold that she evacuated his desk chair without the encouragement of his usual sidelong look of annoyance. She moved the laptop and closed the window with the book she'd been reading, knowing that it was stupid that she thought he would somehow know why she was reading the novel but feeling the need to hide it from him all the same.
"You're back," John said, smiling down at Finch. Finch sat down in his desk chair, looking exhausted, and Shaw wished there was something she could do for him. The mere fact that this had occurred to her at all brought a surge of annoyance. John started pulling food out of the paper bag and offering it to Finch. "Are you hungry?"
"Tired, mostly," he told John with a half-hearted, close-lipped smile. John started to put the food down on Finch's desk and caught himself, apologetically moving it to the little table he'd brought weeks ago now.
"Where've you been?" Shaw asked, glad that her voice sounded frustrated instead of concerned. Finch looked at his computer screen, clicking on the tab of the window that Shaw had minimized. The map with Root's tracking information filled the screen, and he turned stiffly to look at her, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead in question. Shaw looked at him stoically, waiting him out.
"I've been quite a few places. I believe I last had contact with you when I was in Japan. The Machine's reaches are," Finch paused, his eyes narrowing as he looked up at the ceiling, "more extensive than I had imagined. It seemed like everywhere we went there were people waiting there for us."
"We?" Reese asked, his eyebrows pulling upwards but his eyes staying half-closed.
"Daizo travelled with me. We parted ways at Heathrow," said Finch. Shaw gave Reese a cool smirk.
"You jealous, John?" She asked, and received only a look of dull annoyance before Reese turned his attention back to Harold. Bear was still circling Finch, acting like he had been starved for attention, which he hadn't been. Shaw had even taken to letting Bear sleep at her feet on the bed. When her dreams were nightmares, it eased the pain she felt upon waking for the dog to be right there, eager to show her affection.
"You're lucky you didn't get caught," Reese said, disapproving. "As I recall, Daizo's not really trained for this sort of thing."
Harold nodded a little, then looked back at his computer screen, absent-mindedly scratching behind Bear's ears.
"Plain City, Utah," he read the name of the town aloud in his clipped speech, then looked back up at John questioningly. When he saw that John was looking at Sameen, he did the same. "Who are we tracking in Utah?"
Shaw didn't reply, reaching over to grab some food like she hadn't heard the question.
"Give you three guesses," John told Finch, his voice low. "But you won't need three."
Finch nodded again, and Shaw opened her food gruffly. John's words sounded far too close to something that Root would say.
"And why is Miss Groves in a small town in Utah?" he asked, his eyes going to Shaw's hands, lifting a bite of food to her mouth. She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.
"Why were you in Japan?" Shaw bit back. Harold's eyebrows raised impossibly higher up his forehead with irritation.
"To track down and plan the destruction of Samaritan's servers. They may be concentrated here in the US, but their intentions are to turn global," here he paused, pursing his lips. Both Shaw and Reese were glued to his every word. "I would have called, but it seemed pertinent to stay under the radar given that I was in the metaphorical trenches."
"That sounds familiar," said Reese, looking back to Shaw almost apologetically. She had yet to put her food in her mouth, still hovering halfway between the takeout box and her mouth, which had gone dry. Bear was at her feet, staring up at her fork longingly.
"I'm sure that Miss Groves is fine," Finch reassured her. But Shaw barely heard him.
What the hell does he know? Shaw thought to herself. She had been right to worry about Harold being in danger. He had been right in Samaritan's crosshairs. One false move and he could have been discovered. They could have lost him. She could have lost him. Shaw didn't know if she was thinking of the Machine or of herself. Both thoughts caused a burn in her stomach and a tightness in her chest.
She slowly put the food down on the table, uneaten.
Harold was not the only one who could be lost. Root was still out there. In Plain City, Utah, it seemed.
It's like I'm infected with feelings, she thought to herself as her eyes glued to Finch's face. Her mouth started to open to tell them that she had to go out there and find Root. Help her with whatever it was she was doing.
"She wants you to stay here," Reese said. Shaw's gaze turned to him. She felt betrayed by her supposed big brother. "She'll let you know if she needs help."
"No. She won't," Shaw said. She knew for a fact that Root would never ask her to leave the station if it meant that she'd be in even the slightest amount of danger.
"Perhaps we could talk about this tomorrow? She's safe for the night," Harold said, gesturing with his head at the screen. The blip had stopped moving. Shaw greeted the familiar comfort of anger that rose in her at Finch and Reese's blasé attitude about Root's safety. But when she looked at Harold and saw how exhausted he looked, she ground her teeth and nodded.
Finch looked from Reese to Shaw, a little smile on his face, and as far as Shaw could tell, it was genuine.
"It's good to have you back," John said quietly.
"It's good to be back," Harold said. His words were soft. Far less staccato than usual. When he continued, his voice shook with a little uncertain laugh. "I was really beginning to miss home."
Shaw wanted to hate that this tugged at something in her chest. She wanted to hate the way that John shared his relieved smile with Harold and then with her. Like they were just a happy fucking family. And she wanted to hate the way that she couldn't stop herself from returning the smile.
Then later, she wanted to hate pushing the cots apart so that Harold could stay in the subway and not have to worry about getting home. And she wanted to hate the fact that John refused to go home, choosing instead to sleep inside the subway car.
When it was dark, Shaw wanted to hate it that Bear insisted on sleeping on the cot with her, and the way that Finch snored quietly. But she didn't even hate that. She didn't even mind it.
She was glad that the boys were in the subway station.
She only wished that Root was there with them.