It took hours. Hours that felt countless to Shaw, who operated with precision through her exhaustion beyond what she thought was possible. By 5 hours in her eye had swollen completely shut. By 7, the stitches her arm had torn and she was bleeding again. At 12 hours, her knees started to buckle and Fusco had to come in and hold the straw of a milkshake up to her lips as she worked. Reese routinely changed her blood supply, ensuring that his partner was able to avoid passing out, and in between tending to his own wounds and helping out Shaw he and Zoe acted as scrub nurses throughout. A grueling 17 hours later, Shaw felt she had done everything she could for Root: the bullets had been removed, her abdomen carefully put back together, her head wound cleaned and sutured, the bones in her broken arm and foot reset, and – the most strenuous part of the surgery – a pacemaker placed carefully in the hacker's chest, necessary to keep Root alive after all the damage her heart had taken.

17 hours later, and Shaw was steadying herself against the side of Root's bed. She used shaky hands to pull her surgical mask down and wipe her sweaty forehead. Exhausted, dehydrated, in pain, and generally just weary from the events of the past few days, Shaw wanted more than anything to take a break… but she would settle for some stronger painkillers. And a chair. So she dragged herself around the room, hooked herself up to one of their stolen morphine pumps, and found herself the most comfortable rolling desk chair in the subway.

"Now what?", Zoe asked from her spot in the corner as Shaw shuffled around the room. She looked just was weary as the rest of them, Root's blood on her blouse, little specks of it on her face. Her and John shared a look.

Shaw slumped down into her pilfered seat. And then she shrugged.

"We wait."

And wait they did, because they knew they had no other option than to bide their time until Root woke up.

After cleaning up, Zoe took Reese to her apartment to rest despite his very ardent protests. It was Finch's persistence that convinced him to leave. He would need his full strength to fight back once they found a way, after all. Though, in true John Reese fashion, he vowed to be back first thing in the morning. Finch himself had slept through the majority of the surgery and was back on his computers in the subway car searching for ways to get to Samaritan by the time it was all over. Fusco had left hours before, called back to work and promising to do what he could from the police station. The detective also vowed to bring food to the weary would-be heroes when he stopped by next, something everyone was very appreciative for.

So while Finch typed away, and Bear slept at the doorway to the makeshift operating room, Shaw dozed off and on at the side of Root's bed. She woke up every 30 minutes without fail just to make sure that she didn't dream it all – she listened to the steady beeping of the heart monitors, the soft wooshing of the ventilator, the dog snoring a few feet away, she pressed the button on the morphine pump, and she found that little bit of peace she needed to get the next 30 minutes of sleep.

Early morning came along, as it always does, and Shaw found herself wide awake before the sun had even risen. As she always does. She dragged herself out of the chair she had fallen into the night before and stretched – she was sore, terribly so, but couldn't stand to sit still any longer. Despite the swollen eye, the busted lip, the broken arm, despite the quite literally near death experience she had just survived, Shaw decided to go on a run. She barely made it half of her usual route – a scant 5 miles – before returning back to the subway, however. Too tired, too sore, and too preoccupied, the former agent found it much too difficult to focus on something as simple as putting one foot in front of the other.

When she returned, sweaty out of breath, she was met with Finch's high pitched voice at the bottom of the stairs. Shaw stopped and carefully listened – there was no answering voice, however. Just more of Finch's yelling. More of his arguing.

"That is not an option", she heard him say.

Then, "None of our people are expendable".

And, "She will not be ready for one of your missions for a long time".

Carefully, she crept down the stairs, but Bear gave her away before she could eavesdrop more. He excitedly bounced over to her, and it wasn't as if she could resist bending down and loving on him a little. He licked her face and hands, and she scratched behind his ears. A very nervous Ms. Shaw? came from the subway car, and she reluctantly abandoned her favorite partner to wander over to Finch. She went to him, arms crossed across her chest and an eyebrow raised.

"Lover's quarrel?"

"Hardly."

Shaw waited a beat, but Finch just continued tapping away, quietly muttering to himself.

"Care to elaborate, Finch?"

"Our Machine", he said, not turning around or stopping, "is requesting that Ms. Groves go on a mission to South America. When I informed it that she was incapacitated for the near future, and offered to have John tend to the matter, I was very rudely informed that only the Analogue Interface was capable of completing this mission."

"No way."

"Which is exactly what I said, Ms. Shaw."

Finch continued his typing, clearly done with the conversation. Angry, Shaw just huffed and stormed off, hell-bent on getting to Root's side as quickly as possible. As if the Machine was a tangible entity that could walk right in to the subway and take the hacker away with her. It was not at all the case – it wasn't even within the realm of possibility – but Shaw was not about to spend a single second more away from her than necessary.

"Fuck you", Shaw whispered to no one in particular. She could hear Finch and the Machine still arguing in the other room, about the correct course of action to take, about the possible outcomes and losses they could incur. As if they hadn't lost enough. And didn't stand to lose even more. Finch kept telling the Machine that there was no way Root – no way that it's precious Analogue Interface – would be able to travel to South America and perform whatever tasks it was requesting. Not now, and not for a long time. Not ever, if Shaw had anything to say about it.

And she fully intended to say a lot.

"Fuck you and your omnipotent bullshit, you stupid collection of circuit boards and superiority. Fuck you and your mission. Fuck you and your analog fucking interface. Fuck the stupid things you make her do, fuck the stupid ideas you put in her head, fuck your secret quests and fuck it all, fuck you. You've never done or said one beneficial fucking thing. If it were up to me we would scrap you and use the parts to build a computer than might actually fucking help people."

"She kept saying you could come."

Shaw looked up from the monitors she was absently watching, eyes wide and mouth open. Root's eyes were still shut but she was trying to move her arms, the heavy cast on one combined with drugs and the weakness of it all resulting in her just frustratingly lowering them with a tired huff.

"Don't move", Shaw said one she finally remembered how to speak again. "Just… stay still."

Quickly she moved to Root's side and took her vitals, a gentle hand on her wrist and another t her pulse point. Root's pulse was there, and was strong – Shaw couldn't help but see in her mind's eye Root's opened chest beneath her, her heart exposed and beating erratically. Now, under stitches and staples and bandages, under the gentle press of Shaw's fingers, that same heart was beating as strong as ever.

She had literally held that heart in her hands. How could she ever look at Root again without remembering that?

"What hap-"

"Didn't I just tell you to stay still?"

"I can talk without moving, Sameen."

"Hmm", Shaw gently put Root's arm back down, "not in my experience."

She moved around the bed to check the IV's and bags attached, surprised that Root was actually listening – though she shouldn't have been, considering the haze that all the medication probably had the hacker in. Satisfied that everything was in order, Shaw pulled a pen light out of her pocket.

"I know this is going to suck, but I need you to open your eyes."

Root groaned but acquiesced, opening them slowly. They were bloodshot, and she looked exhausted, but Shaw had never been so happy to see those mischievous brown eyes looking at her. Perhaps much less mischievous than before, but that spark was still there. That spark that was so unbelievably and undeniably Root. Shaw could have cried.

"She kept saying you would come", Root repeated, "but I didn't believe Her. I thought for sure I was going to die there. Martine-"

"Dead."

Root raised an eyebrow. Shaw could have sworn she saw a smirk across those cracked lips.

"The late Martine had no intention of letting me live. And every time I lost consciousness, I was convinced – I hoped, even – that I wouldn't wake up. Then they sent that monster Jeremy in and... I was scared, Shaw. I couldn't tell you the last time I was so damn scared. And just when I thought it was over… there you were."

Awkwardly, Shaw shifted from one foot to the other. She cleared her throat, and looked away.

"And Reese. He helped. Not much, but he was there."

The hacker hummed noncommittedly. She knew better than to push the subject with Shaw though, even in her drug induced state, so she took the lull to try to assess her surroundings, and what had happened to her since the last thing she remembered. Slowly, she brought a hand up to the bump she could feel on her chest, and ran clumsy fingers over it.

Pacemaker, the familiar voice in her head said at the same time Shaw said it to her.

"Don't fuck with it", Shaw added. "It needs to heal right where it's at unless you want a free floating piece of machinery in your body."

Root smirked.

I'm basically a cyborg now, huh?"

For whatever reason, the joke made Shaw's eyes water. She couldn't place the feeling she had, low in her chest, but it sat there heavy and all consuming and made it more and more difficult for her to breathe as every millisecond passed. Since Root had joined Team Machine, she had endured so much – she was placed in a mental hospital, she was kidnapped, she was tortured, she lost her hearing, she was kidnapped again, tortured again…Now not only would she wear that cochlear implant for the rest of her life, not only would she hear the Machine in her head for the rest of her life, but now she would have that bump on her chest every day. She would have to rely on the pacemaker – just another machine in her life ruled by machines – to keep her alive every single day.

The worst part, Shaw thought, was that she knew that Root would be on that plane to South America like the Machine had asked if it was at all up to her.

"I had to save you. I had to. I couldn't just- just let them hurt you. Let them have you. Or break you. When Martine called me, when I heard your voice, I… I was… on fire, Root. You don't…. you can't understand. I was on fire and nothing was going to put that fire out until I had you back. I had to teach Samaritan that they can't hurt us. They can't hurt you. They will never take anything of mine again."

Root wiped absently at the single tear that fell, traitorous with its mere existence.

"Something of yours? What does that mean?", she asked, her thumb resting just beneath Shaw's eye. It was as the bone that Martine had broken, the skin mottled with dark blues and purples, still swollen almost shut and over sensitive to the touch, but the warm digit and gentle pressure didn't bother her. It grounded her to right then, to that moment, prevented her from floating off. Or running away. Which was exactly what her inner voice was screaming at her to do.

Shaw gulped.

"Nothing", she replied too quickly. It was an instinct - to deflect, to deny. To preserve. An instinct she developed in response to being told her entire life that she was different. That what she was feeling and how she was feeling it was wrong. That she was a freak.

(As a young girl, after her father's passing but far before medical school or the Marines, Sameen's mother would speak to her in hushed Farsi like it was a language of their own, and helped explain the world in a way that someone like Sameen would understand. She never made her daughter feel anything but loved, accepted her quiet rage and smoldering apathy like it was nothing out of the ordinary. Like every little girl was more concerned with her next meal than the fact that her father had died right next to her. Like every child faced the thing that scared them with such ferocity that they would spin on the equipment at the playground for hours just to force their body to unlearn a natural response. Like every teenager was kicked out of their high school for beating a young man within an inch of his life, after taking out all of the other boys that had jumped her after track practice one afternoon.

She made Sameen feel like maybe being different and being broken often felt like they were the same thing, but were inherently not.

Root made Shaw feel something similar.)

Though she knew that nothing was neither the right answer nor the answer that Root deserved, Shaw wasn't sure what she could say. How could she explain to Root the fire that had consumed her, the inferno that filled her and fueled her to finding the other woman and taking down any and every thing that stood in her way?

How could Shaw explain to her that while she didn't really know what love felt like, what it meant for so called normal people, whatever feeling it was that filled Shaw's chest at the mere thought of Root was not at all dissimilar to the way she felt when her and her mother spoke their secret language to each other?

Maybe she couldn't, Shaw thought.

But she owed it to Root to try.

"It's not nothing", she corrected, just above a whisper. Unable to take the severity of Root's gaze a second longer, she finally looked away. Her eyes asked a million questions while never expecting answers, the most important one being 'do you feel the same way I do?'. The hand stayed on her cheek, the pressure a bit more insistent, as if Root knew that Sameen needed the reminder. "Maybe it means... anything, I think? It could mean anything."

"Or everything", Root whispered.

Shaw found she couldn't disagree. Bringing her eyes back to Root's, they regarded each other for a moment - just a breadth of time - but it was long enough for something to shift between them. Where the air had been stagnant, filled with things that were either unsaid or thoroughly denied by either one or both parties, it was now charged - electrified with whatever decision had been silently come to.

"Or everything" was a whisper on Shaw's lips when she finally brought them to Root's.

Shaw kissed her slowly, deliberately, doing everything in her power to keep her movements controlled, painfully aware of how fragile Root was beneath her. Just a day ago Shaw had spent what felt like an eternity trying to keep her heart beating on an impromptu operating table. Just that morning, Root had been in a drug induced coma. Not too long ago when Root had finally woken, she was on enough pain medication to fell a large man, lest the weight of just her blanket be too much for her to take.

Not that Root seemed to share the doctors thought process, in the slightest - though she didn't say anything, though she kissed Shaw back just as slowly, Sameen could feel the tight muscles just beneath her fingertips, could feel the hitches of breath against her own lips and cheeks. Root felt like a rubber band on the verge of snapping, and Shaw felt like the knife held against her edges. She resisted though, to her credit; resisted the urge to demand that Sameen stop treating her like glass and just get on with it already.

She had been waiting for this for forever, after all. The least Shaw could do was get to the good part. Still, for Shaw's sake - after seeing how truly lost she had been from the moment she realized Root had been taken - Root resisted.

Resisted it all quite well, even, until Shaw's deft fingers finally trailed down her body and under her t-shirt, where they traced lazy and tentative circles on the soft skin between Root's navel and waistband. She ran them softly under the bandages around her midsection. She traced them too lightly, too high, too slowly, and all of it combined with the medication Root was on made her head spin. Not in an entirely unpleasant way, she decided, but also not in the way she knew it could be spinning if Shaw would just move her hand a few inches lower.

"Shaw", she mumbled against lips, which moved to her jaw and trailed towards her neck to give the hacker space to speak, "you don't have to treat me like I'm going to break."

Suddenly the movement against her stopped, the warm lips pulled back and calloused fingertips stilled.

"Yes I do", Shaw said back as she eyed Root seriously. "Because you might."

"What if I promise you that I won't?"

"You can't promise that."

"You're right", Root acquiesced. "How about if I promise to tell you if you're hurting me? Will you ravage me like you've been thinking about doing since you met me or not? I'm sure we could find an iron laying around here somewhere."

The joke fell flat, the mirth in Root's smirk not quite meeting her eyes the way that it usually did.

It wasn't as if Shaw didn't want to ravage Root, as she put it. She would like nothing more than to take her, wholly and completely, to mark her and bruise her and make her truly hers in the most intimate way that Shaw was able. She would like nothing more than to take Root to the precipice and all but push her over with little more than her named being screamed out. But Root... Root wasn't ready for that. Not physically, at least. Her stitches were still fresh, her oxygen levels still a little low, her pacemaker always making Shaw a little more nervous than necessary.

And the more Shaw thought about it, her hands on either side of Root's head, her brown curls wrapped around her wrists and between her fingers as if they were sentient and intent on keeping her there, she didn't want it to be how it would be with any random man or woman she could have brought home for the night. She wanted it to mean more, to be more. Especially because she knew how she felt and what she said often had a disconnect; if she couldn't put it in to words, at least not yet, she hoped that her actions would show Root just how different this was for her.

She may not always want to be gentle. But for this, this particular time, with its particular woman, Sameen Shaw recognized the fact that she needed to be.

"Just let me do this", Shaw said quietly as she leaned forward once again, starting a path of gentle kisses from behind Root's good ear to the base of her throat, "please. Because I need it as much as you do."

Sensing the severity of the moment (combined with the gentle sucking that had started on her pulse point, even as nimble fingers began to slip past her waistband), Root wisely kept her mouth shut. In fact, Shaw noted much later, with the excepting of breathy sighs and delightful little moans, Root was completely silent as Shaw did her best to worship her. She may not be able to – as much as she loathed the term – make love to Root. But she would do everything she could to make her feel it.

And Shaw, cool and collected Shaw… what Shaw wanted most to be known and remembered for was the calm that washed over her at any given time - from hails of gunfire to civil conversation, the former agent liked to establish and maintain that calm with an almost annoying success rate. But kissing Root... Kissing Root eroded that calm in the worst way, replaced it with the same feeling one may get while standing on the beach while the receding waves pulled the sand from beneath your feet. It didn't matter that Root was laying in a hospital bed, half dead, hanging onto life by the leads of just another machine. It didn't matter that the future was uncertain, that they faced an impossible to defeat enemy, that they were a handful against a literal army… Root still had more power over Shaw than any one person or thing had ever had in her life. Root was that driving force that she was looking for every day in the past. Root was that thing she needed that she never actually wanted.

And Shaw wouldn't have it any other way.