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They argue over which safe house to use, until they get a text with an address from an unknown number; Root beams at the next CCTV camera she sees and mouths a ‘thank you’. Shaw lets the moment hang for just a second longer before she pulls Root away. Shaw knows how things are between Root and the Machine, so she’ll take the good moments, not that she cares about whether Root’s happy or not.
(That’s what she’s been telling herself for close to a year now, and if it sounds like a mantra — well, Shaw’s had worse mantras, really.)
The address ends up being a house in Queens, this duplex on a semi-quiet street; there’s a thick layer of dust over everything, and Shaw recognizes the setup. “Cold War remnants,” she explains to Root. “Old Soviet bunker; I’ve seen a few of these in Europe. They have different purposes, and I’d wager this one was in case of chemical warfare,” she adds as she opens the coat closet by the entrance and finds a stack of full Hazmat suits; not the latest gear by far, but it should hold.
Root’s thumbing through the instructions Harold gave them; her face is doing that thing it does when she’s really focused, thumb worrying her lip. Her focus wavers as Shaw begins to remove her clothing.
“Come on, you too,” Shaw says once she's down to a black tank top and underwear. “Now,” she adds when Root just openly stares.
“What happened to buying a girl a drink or dinner first?” Root teases.
Shaw gets this weird feeling at Root’s words. Shaw’s heard of butterflies in one’s stomach and she never understood the term; this doesn’t feel like butterflies, it feels like the recoil from shooting an .50 cal automatic, this longing mixed with desire and packed with something Shaw can’t quite identify. It’s a constant variable, a dichotomy that shouldn’t exist, not in someone like her - yet it does, like an unquantifiable mercurial element that evolves and shifts and escapes reason.
“I’m not Tomas, you know, I require more than you batting those eyes at me and giving orders,” Root says even as she ditches the leather jacket.
“Since when?” Shaw counters as she slips on the hazmat suit on.
“Since Alaska,” Root offers as she lifts her shirt, and she knows she’s won this round.
Shaw bites her lower lip at the memory, the fire she’s been letting almost completely burn out before stoking it again for days turns into a blaze again.
Root’s efficient as she strips down to her underwear and steps into her own hazmat suit. “I gotta check you,” she points out as Shaw fastens the helmet on.
Root’s touch is methodical as she checks Shaw’s suit for any holes or tears. She is taking this seriously, and Shaw’s grateful as breathing in her own recycled breath is fogging up the visor before she flips the oxygen filter on.
She returns the favor on Root, extra careful and double checking everything. Once they’re satisfied, Shaw retrieves the vials and heads for the basement. The adapted incinerator is hermetically sealed with two chambers, and it kicks with a powerful swoosh sound when Shaw turns it on.
They place the vials into the first chamber, watch as just the right amount of oxygen feeds the fire until the vials are destroyed. There’s an old LED display that shows the number of contaminants in the air inside the incinerator, and they watch as it goes from several parts per million down until it is gone. Once the display shows 0ppm, the vacuum kicks in and the flames disappear in the absence of oxygen.
“Step One complete,” Root points out. “Now our clothes go into that sterilizer and we wait until they have no measurable contaminants; that will take a few hours. Think there’s a shower down here?” She asks glancing around.
Shaw opens a couple of doors before she finds it; the decontamination shower in the basement was built probably in the 70s but the water is hot and the towels were sealed in plastic so they’re still fluffy and clean. It’s good that the Machine found them this place, because Finch’s instructions for this part involved bleach and possibly ammonia— yeah, this is much better.
They use the water to check for any tears in their suits again; when they confirm there are none, they strip completely and both stand under the water for the recommended amount of time. The water is far too hot, and as Shaw watches as Root’s skin turns a soft red, some fresh scars turning a deeper red.
Root hands Shaw the decontamination soap, both scrubbing at their sensitized skins with the soap.
“Turn around,” Shaw orders, and works the soap into a fine lather on Root’s back. Root returns the gesture, the shower beeping at them once the time is up.
“I’ve gotta check you for any cuts or abrasions, anywhere that the virus might’ve gotten in,” Root explains once they’ve dried off the excess water. She moves closer to Shaw and starts on the back of Shaw’s neck. Her fingers trace the skin meticulously but her touch isn’t as detached as it’d been upstairs. She traces the scars on Shaw’s back, inspects every inch of Shaw’s skin until her thumbs press against Shaw’s ilium sacrum and then they’re fanning out along Shaw’s hip bones, the tension there dissipating as Root massages the area.
She moves to Shaw’s front, notices one of the bruises forming against Shaw’s ribs. She presses into them, checks for anything out of place but finds nothing. Shaw sharply sucks in a breath when Root presses into it some more, white pain radiating out from the injury.
Both her hands move to Shaw’s shoulders, tracing both of them from collarbone to upper arms and down until she can wrap her fingers around Shaw’s, bringing both hands up to her eye level.
Shaw bites her lip as she watches Root inspect every digit, every line of the palms of her hands. She presses against the callouses she finds, trigger fingers and old injuries, rubs at the joints and massages the skin.
When she drops Shaw’s hands, she kneels on a towel on the floor and inspects Shaw’s legs; she finds bruises forming there too, pokes and prods at them until pain explodes behind Shaw’s eyelids and there’s a steady throbbing between Shaw’s legs.
Shaw’s breathing pattern all jacked up. It’s not just from Root’s touch, she tells herself as if immunity or indifference would make this easier to swallow, but the air’s still filled with steam and she can’t quite get her lungs to work properly.
“No cuts I can find,” Root comments as she stands up. “Unless you want me to double check.”
Her face is very close to Shaw’s now, the extra height she has makes it feel like she’s crowding Shaw, who responds by closing the gap between them and capturing Root’s lips with hers.
Shaw’s rough— she’s always rough, biting and bruising and bleeding usually, but this time Root stops her. “Any cuts during the decontamination can lead to infection,” Root quotes from Finch’s instructions. “Do you know what this means?”
She’s not exactly listening because Root’s pressing open mouthed kisses along Shaw’s jawline.
“It means we have to be gentle, Shaw,” Root explains.
“I don’t do gentle,” Shaw points out, hands squeezing Root’s damp hair to illustrate her point.
Root moans at the pain. “Don’t make me restrain you,” she adds, reaching for Shaw’s other hand, the one not currently wrapped in her hair. “Not that I wouldn’t enjoy that, but I kind of had other plans for tonight,” she adds, lacing her fingers with Shaw’s.
“I’m— I can’t,” Shaw starts to say. Not only she doesn’t do slow or gentle, but particularly now. She has been redlining for days, and she needs the release.
“I know,” Root offers before her free hand finds its way between Shaw’s legs. “Trust me?”
Against her better judgement, Shaw nods.
It feels like forever before Root pulls away, Shaw’s breathing could possibly be described as panting as she tugs on Root’s hair again. When it’s her turn to inspect Root’s skin, she takes her time, lips following her fingertips and she finds out she can do slow and gently after all.
*
Shaw’s phone rings sometime after sunrise; it’s John with a new relevant number— six new numbers actually, so they need all the eyes they can get. When he gets to the address Shaw texted him, he doesn’t question it when Shaw and Root both slip into the backseat of the unmarked, wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“You two look like shit,” Fusco comments before he takes another sip from his stained coffee cup.
Shaw looks at their reflection and— yeah, he’s got a point, her hair is curling in places she didn’t know it could curl, and Root’s skin is still a rosier red than usual, including the spot on her collarbone that is bright red in the shape of Shaw’s mouth; she knows it’ll switch colors, and she might not get to see it happen, might not see Root for days again, but knowing it’ll be there is more reassuring than she expected.
“You would too if you’d spent the whole night decontaminating from a supervirus,” Shaw replies gruffly.
Reese turns to look at her, then Root, then back to her. “Decontamination?”
“Yeah, Finch gave me the whole protocol to follow,” Shaw adds.
“This virus wasn’t weaponized,” John explains. “I ran into it once before, there’s no need for a full decontamination protocol.”
Shaw frowns, “Then why would Finch—?” Realization dawns on her, the complicated instructions, the Machine sending them to this safe house. She glances at Root, who’s staring out the window of the unmarked with a knowing smirk on her face, and Shaw knows she’s arrived at the same conclusion.
“Why would Glasses do what?” Fusco asks.
Root’s knee brushes against Shaw’s, and Shaw doesn’t pull back. She glares at Fusco through the rearview mirror before shrugging and replying with: “Nothing, nevermind.”