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There's always a moment.
A shift in equilibrium, a falling out of symmetry, a moment that changes your trajectory path.
For Shaw, that moment is right now, in a filthy basement of an abandoned building, crouching behind an overturned bench, watching Root reload her gun.
She hadn't realised she was staring. Root stops mid-action, turns to face her, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.
In Shaw’s defence, there were guns involved, general barbarity, adrenaline… You can’t blame a girl for liking the rush.
Overhead the gunfire never ceases for even a second, and Shaw can still hear John's movements on the left side of her. He's trying to get their number to sit still, but Hansen Jones is a jumpy, jumpy man, who is frankly a lot more trouble than he was worth.
Still she doesn't so much as blink, and neither does Root, her face half frozen in question.
There isn't a significant amount of space behind the bench where the four of them are currently holding position, and it occurs to Shaw that Root's face is rather near her own. She knows this because she can see that Root is very flushed from their running around, her chests are heaving because she hasn't fully regained her breath, and her lips are very, very pink. How had she not noticed the colour of Root's lips before?
It takes a loud flash bang to go off somewhere near their makeshift shield for Shaw to snap out of it, rising to fire off a few shots before ducking behind the bench again. She doesn't have to look up to know that Root hasn't moved at all. She hears three dull thuds on the floor and knows her shots have made their mark.
She knows that Root isn't going to move until she gets some sort of answer (because that's just how ridiculous she is).
More gunfire blazes above them.
"We need to move, fast. Finch is finding us a safe route," John says in that stoic way of his. He clicks on his earpiece and listens as (she assumes) Harold is giving him instructions. Shaw barely hears him, she's kind of busy trying to avoid looking at Root at all.
So instead she finds her attention drawn to Root's legs, which she finds out, is a very bad move indeed. See, today, Root's wearing leather tights, and has somehow, through their night of operating for what is arguably a questionable vocation, managed to tear one part of it off on her left leg, which means that plenty of skin is showing.
The next thing Shaw feels is a tiny twitch against her fingertips, warm and soft, and then she realises with abject horror, that she's reached out to touch said exposed skin, gun in the same hand and all. Her eyes dart up on reflex to see Root staring back at her with a sort of bemused amazement, her lips hanging slightly open.
There is a beat, and Root narrows her eyes calculatingly.
"You're turned on," Root accuses incredulously.
"No- no, I'm not-" Shaw stutters, unsure how she's going to save herself this time. She's also aware that all evidence is against her. Her hand is still frozen at Root's calf, and she feels self-conscious enough that she can't retract it now. Root must have been as stunned as she was by this new development, because she certainly isn't pressing her full advantage yet.
“I lost my balance-” Shaw insists, and then (much to Shaw’s chagrin) Root recovers, one side of her lips pulling upward.
“I’ll let you lose your balance on me again later,” Root says low and teasingly, and then she runs her tongue over her bottom lip, before sucking it into her mouth and biting it. Shaw can see the depression of Root’s lip where her left canine is pressing down. Distantly Shaw thinks that Root’s canines are a thing of beauty. They look so sharp.
When Shaw looks up at Root’s eyes again, she finds them stormy, dark and hungry, and she is enthralled by how predatory Root looks. Root leans in a little, eyes dropping to Shaw’s own parted lips, and Shaw breathes in-
“Really?" John exclaims exasperatedly, throwing them both a disgusted face, "right now?"
Sometime during their brief and ghastly exchange, the third forgotten member of their team must have picked up on the strange atmosphere.
That snaps Shaw right out of it, the embarrassment that John had been right beside her, and she snatches back her hand and adjusts her grip and darts upward to shoot. She ducks down again.
"Their backup has arrived, means it's time for us to go," John says, standing up to lead the way, dragging Hansen along, keeping his eye and gun trained in front of him. Shaw follows.
Behind her, she hears Root finally lodge in the ammo clip she had been reloading in the first place with a resounding click.
They don't speak or look at each other (or at least, Shaw goes out of her way to avoid it) until they get far enough, and John checks to make sure they aren't followed.
"Those people still want you dead, so unfortunately, you're gonna have to come with me for a while," John says to their number, gesturing for him to stick close.
This is the part they usually split up in three ways. John goes to play goody goody with their number, Shaw blends back into the shadows, and Root bounces off to whatever the machine wants her to do.
For her own sanity, Shaw decides that being alone with a ripped-leather-tights-biting-lip-sharp-teeth-heated-eyes-Root is the worst idea in the world, so she opts to follow John. She is absolutely dismayed when Root skips along beside her.
"Poo, I need new pants, don't I?"
Shaw grinds her teeth, but doesn't dignify that remark with a reply. She tries not to think how close Root is standing, or how the ends of her hair are sometimes blown onto her, grazing her skin just barely. Root jibes her further.
"Maybe we can go shopping. We can get matching pairs~"
If Root plans on continuing in this vein for some time (and Shaw just knows she isn't going to let it go), she isn't going to be held responsible for her agitation. She wonders why the hell John is walking so fast in front. He looks like a tiny man in the distance, with an even tinier loser being dragged along. Dumb number. Dumb pants. Dumb Root.
"I don't want leather pants."
"Why not?"
"I just don't."
"Bet you'd look good in them," Root coos, and Shaw rolls her eyes.
"No, I won't. It'll make me look stumpy. My legs aren't as long as yours-" Shaw cuts herself off, but it's a second too late, and dread fills her and she feels herself pale.
"Don't," She rounds on Root," even think about it-" but Root's not listening-
"Did you just-"
"No- I. did. Not-"
"You did." Root's eyes gleam in the dark of the night like a cat’s, twinkling at the corners as she grins brightly, her expression razor-edged. "You gave me a compliment."
Shaw raises a finger, and Root waits expectantly, hands on her hips, her grin so wide Shaw fears it will rip through her cheeks. Shaw opens and closes her mouth. Twice. Then she makes a loud disgusted sound at herself, turns right around to the general direction where John's gone and storms away.
A shift in equilibrium, a falling out of symmetry; there's always a moment.
Shaw has always been partial to denial.
Root has never wanted to eat Shaw up more.