Chapter Text
I know how to hurt
I know how to heal
I know what to show
And what to conceal
The World is Not Enough, Garbage
They meet in Paris. It sounds like the start – or end – of some cheesy rom-com or student art house film, and later, she'll roll her eyes every time someone asks for their stupid origin story because this is how it happens:
Sameen Shaw is tired. There is a massive bruise forming deep in the muscles of her left shoulder and she hasn't slept in thirty-six hours at least, but the mission is complete, which means she's freshly showered and at leisure until her flight out in the morning. It's an incognito trip, so no agency transport for her, but the delay isn't much of a hardship this time around because if there are two things she appreciates about the French it's their appreciation for brandy and unabashed use of butter.
The onion soup - or at least, the bowl that used to contain onion soup with a thick layer of cheese - is whisked away from her place and replaced by a platter of oysters. Oh yes.
From the next table, a woman's voice cuts through the din of the crowded restaurant and the background noise of the agency sweeps cleaning up her mess that comes through her earpiece and is subconsciously ignored. "You know oysters are considered an aphrodisiac."
Shaw takes in dark green silk that skims slender curves and bares the long line of a white throat that she follows to a pointed chin and a smile that suggests what's blatantly clear in dark lined eyes and only grows the longer her gaze lingers.
"Then again," she says, glancing down in a single flutter of mascara-lengthened lashes, all coy and not at all innocent, "I usually find that kind of thing...unnecessary."
It's stupid, but she's kind of glad she went with the black dress that she knows is working for her, judging by the way the other woman's gaze dips when she shifts fluidly in her seat, tilts her head back, and tips an oyster down her throat in one practiced movement. She doesn't hesitate to meet her eyes as she sets the shell back down on the plate with a clatter.
"I'm Root."
Her smile is a challenging twist of full lips, like a cat eyeing the cream. The brandy is hot and buttery on her tongue and the burn transfers to her bottom lip as the tip snakes out to wet the delicate skin. There’s a magret de canard due to follow the oysters that she won’t be passing up for anyone, but Root doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.
She pushes the platter closer to the divide between their tables like an invitation, takes another mollusk and drowns it in lemon. Her left eyebrow arches as Root toasts her with a clink of calcified shell. “Sameen.”
The Seine is prettier at night, when the streetlights bounce off the slow moving river in arcs and waves and illuminate its stone-walled banks and bridges worn smooth with time. The light glows and dissipates, fairly floats in the summer air, which might be due at least in part to the drink heating their blood and skin.
Root is stumbling along like a drunken bumblebee, laughing and flushed, with curls escaping her chignon. She's...not charming, exactly, but Shaw is just this side of too drunk to think of the right word, and if she wraps her hand around the back of Root's neck and pulls her down to bite her smile and swallow her laughter that bubbles up like champagne, that's probably the booze too.
She bites back, teeth and lips and tongue along her neck and finding the place at the curve of her jaw, just under her ear, that makes her hands clench and wrinkle the fine silk of Root's dress, and makes her want to rip the delicate fabric.
Shaw pushes, tugs her down a narrow side street and pushes, shoves her hard enough for the impact of her head against the hard stone wall to be audible but she's not listening; her hand slides past silk and up satiny skin and the dark glitter of Root's eyes looking down at her is second only to the sound of her name escaping those lips.
"Sameen…Sameen," she laughs breathily, descending into a throaty groan as Shaw's fingers dip into the slick heat of her. Her hands scrabble against her shoulders, digging into bared skin that burns against hers.
She's dizzy, carried away on a rush of the particular brand of arousal that accompanies a day of not getting killed combined with whatever it is about this woman that feels like an amphetamine delivered directly into her bloodstream. So it takes her a second to understand what's happening when Root pushes her away and follows with a hard kiss.
"The French are very liberated," she gets out despite Shaw's attempts to monopolize her mouth, "but what I’m going to do to you? I'd prefer not to put on a show."
"I'm not complaining."
She smirks. "And I don't feel like sharing."
It should be a cold awakening, a jolt back to reality in a Parisian alley with a stranger who's already asking for more than she can give, and she should walk away right now and find someone else that’s a little less…just less.
Maybe that’s why she lets her take her hand and lead her through the streets of the Latin Quarter, past a receptionist who ignores them as they crash into the tiny lift, into a darkened hotel room and onto smooth sheets. When she rips green silk from her, pushes her onto the bed and pins her down, Root smiles and she thinks that this might be all right.
It’s just one night.
Two years later
“Looking good, Indy.”
She doesn’t let her annoyance show on her face as she weaves through the busy square, the loose fabric of her skirt swirling with every step. “Shut up, Cole.”
He groans into her earpiece, hidden by the shawl covering her head. “Didn’t we just talk about codenames? And why we have them?”
“Whatever.” The stairs to the rooftop are narrow and steep, which wouldn’t ordinarily be a problem except for the disassembled M2010 hidden on her person.
“I swear I don’t know how you don’t get benched.”
“Yeah, you do,” she grins, setting up in under thirty seconds and settling into her perch. “It’s because I’m the best.”
“The best at breaking the rules, maybe.”
“Rules are for people who don’t know what they’re doing,” she shoots back.
His laugh is warm and familiar in her ear as she flips the sight open. The Marrakech heat is oppressive, coming from everywhere at once, but it’s the most comfortable she’s been in a week. Here, with a rifle pressed against her cheek, swathed in sand-coloured cotton, the other half of her life feels every bit of 3600 miles away, at least until –
“How’s the wifey?”
“Viridian,” she bites off warningly.
“Don’t worry, Indy, we’re on isolated. What kind of partner do you think I am?”
She can hear his smirk, she swears she can. “The annoying kind.”
“That’s me. Seriously though, Shaw, you’ve been majorly grumpy lately. Even for you. Everything…okay?”
Everything is not okay, but that is so not a conversation she is having right now. Probably never. “It’s fine, Cole. She’s – shit, he’s here.”
“He’s early,” he notes grimly, all humour gone from his voice and she’s remembering why she likes him again.
Their mark is blond, sticking out like a sore thumb in cargo shorts and polo shirt as he takes a seat at the sidewalk café. Ten years ago she would have thought that he doesn’t look much like an arms dealer, but she’d learned early on that bad people come in all kinds of wrapping. She readies the shot without hesitating.
Her finger tightens on the trigger, she exhales, and –
He falls backward, off his chair, with the impact. Blood stains his white shirt, she can see it from here, but she’s already swiveling, searching windows and rooftops for the telltale –
“Indy?”
“That wasn’t me. There’s someone else here.” She sees it, a flurry of movement in the window of the adjoining building. Top floor. The fastest way across is by rooftop, and the distance is not one that she’ll be leaping any time soon, even if she wants nothing more than to hunt down the asshole that just poached her fucking mark.
“They’ll be gone by now,” he says like he knows what she’s thinking. He probably does. “We need to go too.”
She’s packed up and disappearing into the hysterical crowd in less than a minute because she is a fucking professional but she is also beyond pissed and stays that way even when Cole picks her up in the van half a mile away.
“What the fuck, Cole.” She rips the shawl off her head and tosses it in a corner, closely followed by the rest of her clothes until she’s left in her standard issue black tank and pants and a scowl to match. “No one said there was anyone else in on this.”
He doesn’t say anything until she’s downed the bottle of icy water he tosses at her, calm as ever in the face of her fury. “Sweeps went in. Found this.”
This is a calling card, the paper heavy and textured between her fingers, marred only by the clean imprint of a typewriter’s hammer. A. Lovelace. “What the hell is this?”
“I don’t know. But Control might.”
If anyone would know, it would be Control. And then maybe she’d get the green light to take out whoever the hell A. Lovelace is. Shaw settles back in her seat; she might be pissed, but she’s always had a sharp understanding of what is within her control and what is not, and until this newcomer is within reach, she’ll have to settle for waiting.
“Cole?”
“Yeah, Shaw.”
“I’m hungry.”
Her flight lands early, so the brownstone is still dark and deserted by the time she arrives home. She’s never had a home before, and the little shiver of delight that tingles up her spine every time she steps through the door to the carefully organized and decorated space that she gets to call hers never gets old.
First things first. She hangs her coat in the front hall closet and leaves her suitcase by the dresser. Her fingers unclasp her necklace easily and unthread the thin platinum band that fits on her fourth finger perfectly.
Home. Who would have thought.
Sameen isn’t due to land for another hour, which means she has enough time to check in while making dinner. Well, making is a bit of a misnomer for the call she makes to Club A to call in a perennial favour for delivery. She dials the Hub next, rinsing sweet peppers in the oversized sink and pretending to be domestic.
“Hi, Daizo.”
"Home safe?”
Her knife of choice is slightly outsized for the simple task of chopping vegetables but the weight of the heavy blade in her hand keeps her from feeling like she's suffocating. “Yup. Except someone else almost beat us to the punch.”
“Two ISA agents. Indigo and Viridian, I think,” he confirms mildly, as if a semi-government sponsored agency is nothing to be bothered about. Then again, she’s finding that what freaks Daizo out isn’t always what freaks out other people.
“Well, I left a little present behind for Team Crayola,” she says, smiling a little in remembrance.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?"
“Don’t worry, D. Just a calling card to introduce myself properly. It was all very civilized. You would have liked it.”
He giggles. Freaking giggles. It should be annoying – and sometimes it is – but this time, flush with another success, it makes her laugh. The quarter million sitting in her offshore account, waiting to slowly trickle into their joint account disguised as paycheques and a couple closing bonuses, helps too. And that's just her personal take. “Call me when Buenos Aires comes through. And keep me posted on our other little project."
"Will do, boss."
Root watches as the call deletes itself from her phone's history before setting the device down on the granite countertop and contemplates uncorking a bottle of the Malbec chilling in the wine fridge. Her hesitation is fleeting; she's twisting the corkscrew and opening the bottle with a gentle pop almost without thinking.
She hasn't seen Sameen in nearly a week and she misses her, not just because she's supposed to, but because when she pictures the woman in her mind, there's this uncomfortable tugging sensation between her lungs. What hurts is that she's slowly coming to realize that the feeling doesn't really go away, even when she's there.
Her glass is empty once dinner arrives, and she's drained it twice more by the time she's gotten everything plated and keeping warm in the oven.
The wine is soothing her rough edges, blurring her sharpness when Sameen comes home. "Hi, sweetie."
A grunt is her only reply, as she listens to the soft shuffling sound of a coat sliding into a hanger, the metal clink of the hook meeting the bar, the dull thuds of shoes being kicked off in the hall. She can picture it all, imagines that long ponytail tumbling over one shoulder and bangs falling into her eyes.
"How was your trip?" she tries again, getting out a second glass.
"Fine," comes from the foyer before she finally appears, tightening her ponytail and taking the offered glass. “Where’s Bear?”
Shit. Shit. “I thought we could pick him up from the kennel tomorrow. Stay in tonight, just the two of us.”
Sameen finishes her wine in two, maybe three, swallows. “I’m going to go get him.”
“But I was just about to take dinner out of the oven, and I thought we could – ” she lets herself trail off; Sameen isn’t listening because Sameen is already gone. She takes the plates out of the oven anyway, sets the table, empties the remainder of the bottle into a decanter, and sits down to wait.
The second best thing about the agency headquarters is the gym. Vast and well equipped, the only downside is that it is damn near impossible to avoid other people, particularly people as freakishly good at finding her as Cole is; if they weren’t subjected to full body scans every time they entered the building, she’d almost suspect him of having tagged her at some point.
He pops up at the head of the bench, his grin upside down. “Don’t you know that you’re supposed to get someone to spot you? Gym safety 101, Shaw.”
She replaces the bar with a grimace, sitting up and taking the towel Cole offers her before raising an eyebrow as he takes a seat at the end of the bench. “What.”
“Is everything okay, Shaw? I know you don’t like to talk about that kind of stuff, but – ”
“You’re right. I don’t.” She moves to stand, until Cole’s iron grip on her wrist stays her. “Cole.”
“You’re my partner, Shaw,” he says lowly, with a gravity in his voice that keeps her from pulling away. “I need to be able to know that whatever’s going on with you isn’t going to put either of us in danger when we’re out there.”
“And what exactly do you think is going on with me?”
“I don’t know, Sameen. But you’ve been distracted ever since – even before Marrakech. You’re first one in and last one to leave, if at all. And I know you don’t love us, so I have to assume that there’s something else that keeps you here instead of at home with your lovely – ”
“What is your obsession with her?”
“With whom?” he asks with only half his usual cheek.
“You know who,” she near growls out.
“Your wife? You know that you have one, right? I’ve known you for a long time,” he says, reaching for the thin chain around her neck and lifting its burden out from under her shirt, with all the confidence of someone who knows he won’t be smacked for it. Probably. “And while I’m touched that you let me know about it – ”
“You spied on me!” she interjects, rolling her eyes at the you think? written all over his face.
“I never took you for the marrying type. And I’m happy for you, Sameen, I am. But you…don’t seem to be. Happy, I mean.”
Just like that, she deflates, right there on the bench with – thank god – no one else but Cole to see. She thinks that he should really move into Interrogations, or maybe it’s just friendship or some shit like that.
“She’s a computer geek,” she hears herself say. “At some high tech software company. And I’m a government assassin who goes home every night and pretends she isn’t a sociopath. What about that isn’t fucked up?”
She doesn’t wait for a response, because this is a conversation that she really doesn’t want to have. Possibly ever. This time he lets her get up – she’d break something if she had to, and maybe he knows that – and walk away.
“I’ll see you at debriefing.”
“Hey, Shaw?” he calls after her. “She’s hot though, right?”
Her answer comes in the form of a tightly knotted gym towel whipped at his head. Which is probably a yes.
“They call themselves Machina. Been around for years, but mostly as a shadow backer. As far as we know, they've been involved in forty-two incidents in the last five years. They've preferred the indirect approach in the past, likely to avoid attention from other agencies."
"Which is why this," she says, tossing the calling card onto the briefing table, "is new. Congratulations, Indigo, someone out there likes you."
Cole doesn't laugh, but Shaw thinks that has more to do with Control's intimidation factor than her own.
"Ada Lovelace. Nineteenth century countess, and arguably the first computer programmer; this is the first time Machina has put a name to any of their operatives. Apparently our friends are no longer playing in the shadows, as Marrakech made quite clear."
Control scowls down at them, arms crossed and formidable. "If you get a chance, take them out, ladies."
"Sir, are we sure an inter-agency war -"
Her foot makes solid contact with Cole's shin but to his credit, he doesn't flinch.
"Marrakech was not the first mission that Machina has interfered with, Viridian, and it doesn't look like it'll be the last. Our job is to eliminate threats to the American people, and that includes independent contractors that get in our way," she spits before sweeping from the room with one last stony glare.
Briefing rooms are soundproofed and unmonitored, but Cole still waits a full ninety seconds before breaking the silence. She knows, because she counts, wondering if he’s going to break his record for keeping his mouth shut. He doesn’t.
“What do you think, Indy?”
Shaw slides the calling card off the polished table, feels the indentation of each of the nine letters under her fingers, gauges the texture of the paper with sensitive fingertips, and doesn’t bother to suppress the little flutter of anticipation. “I think that this is going to be fun.”
“You would,” he says with an exaggerated sigh and a smile before getting to his feet.
“C’mon, Shaw."
He knows better than to offer her a hand or hold the door, but he also knows that his stride is 50% longer than hers and doesn’t slow in the slightest. Most of the time, she thinks she likes that about him. “Come on where?”
“The range, dummy,” he calls over his shoulder. “It’s open season on Lady Lovelace.”
Her partner is a fucking dork. He’s also right; she doesn’t really need the practice but she can’t afford to slip now.
"Daizo, what the hell happened?"
She's pissed. She usually has a pretty good grip on her emotions, wrapping everything in a layer of detached amusement, light but strong. But it's hard to be detached when she just watched months of planning and preparing go to waste, disappear into the back of a horribly clichéd black van along with the half-million the contents of his pocket would have fetched.
Root finally gets to street level, right where she lost her mark, when she spots it. Too clean to just be litter, and too vivid to be missed. A small square of smooth, glossy cardstock in an unmistakable shade right between blue and purple, embossed with two words:
Bite me.
Daizo – finally – responds a moment too late. "Definitely ISA. Not sure who, but there's no way we're getting it back now."
"Indigo," she says, more to herself than anything, tucking the card into the pocket of her dark jeans, feeling the edge of it right against her hip bone.
“How do you know? Root? How do you know it was Indigo?”
She doesn’t even try to hide her smile – no one’s looking anyway. “Because, D. She said hello.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain when you’re older,” she says, deliberately needling him as she slides her sunglasses on, plants herself on a bench, and tilts her face to the sun. “Now come and get me.”
She feels bad about it, she really does. Things with Sameen aren’t great by any stretch, and if she had the courage to be honest about it, she’d be able to admit that things with Sameen are what the average person would call on the rocks. Boulders, really, made of ice and granite and piled up like a wall she’s tired of trying to climb.
Root puts her earrings in and checks her lipstick one last time before calling out, “We’re going to be late!”
Sameen’s right heel drags ever so slightly on the hardwood floors upstairs, broadcasting her reluctance, and really it’s strange that she can know these things about her, these little things, and still feel sometimes that she’s married to a complete stranger. She catches sight of her in the foyer mirror, coming down the stairs in a familiar black dress that tugs at her with this mix of nostalgia and desire and something else altogether.
“Ready to go?”
“Just a minute,” she says, without making eye contact, before disappearing into the hall closet.
Root closes her eyes, briefly, tired already. Sometimes she wonders, just to herself, what happens on all those business trips Sameen takes. She can hardly complain; with how often she’s ‘away for work’ herself, it definitely makes it easier to not have to explain her own absences, but she does wonder. Sometimes she wonders if there’s someone else.
The sharp pain that usually accompanies the traitorous thought is as acute as ever, except maybe the guilt makes it worse.
She feels bad about it, she really does.
(There are five cards tucked into the lining of her suitcase that she can’t quite bring herself to throw away and tells herself it’s because it’s intel. Daizo, if he knew, would disagree.)
Sameen emerges in a pair of heels that puts her closer to her own height, and it’s the combination of everything swirling inside of her that finds her putting her hand on her arm. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“You already told her we’d go,” she points out, and Root drops it – they’ve shown up at too many neighbourly functions barely able to look at each other and she doesn’t have the energy to do it again.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go.”
It's a short walk, just a few doors down, and yet she can't think of a single thing to say to her. Sameen's hand swings close to hers as she strides along, close enough to grab and hold and pretend everything's okay. She's tempted to do it, just to see if Sameen will let her; she doesn't, and wishes they could bring Bear instead. She sneaks glances at her, examining high cheekbones and a firmly set full mouth in starts and stops.
"Sameen - "
It's already too late; the front door is already swinging open to spill light and music and laughter down the stairs and onto the street and Sameen is transforming into this smiling woman who makes small talk and eats hors d'oeurves from tiny plates and is completely unrecognizable from the person she thought she married.
She's starting to think she never knew her at all. The thought makes her stumble over the threshold, off balance and out of place, but she's a professional in the game of pretending and she forces a smile that is completely natural and greets her hostess.
Nadya is touchy-feely, even for Root, and disentangling herself is a ten minute challenge in avoiding wandering hands and indelicate questions. The flute of sparkling rosé she nabs upon her escape isn’t even close to a sufficient reward for her efforts, though the chocolate-dipped strawberries in the centre of the spread might come close. At least the woman knows how to feed people.
There’s a significant dent in the bowl’s contents that tells her Sameen has definitely already passed through.
She looks for her without realizing that's what she's doing, around acquaintances and neighbours, eyes skipping over strangers before settling on her, talking to a man tall enough to seem compelled to bend slightly to descend to less lofty heights. He's dark – and married, she notes, disgusted with herself for taking anything beyond a perfunctory notice – and they look good together. Like a pair.
(It’s probably about work, she tells herself, even as she petulantly wonders what exactly is so fascinating about high-end security systems that he needs to hang on her every word.)
Suddenly desperate for something other than pink wine, Root wanders into the kitchen that takes up the entire back section of the ground floor. It takes a little (completely shameless) digging to uncover, but she locates a bottle of Courvoisier behind the most random and varied assortment of olive oil she’s ever seen in her life.
She leans on the island countertop, picks at a tray of cheese and crackers, and contemplates the fact that she’s the least social person at a party that includes Sameen Shaw. At least the kitchen seems to be a safe zone.
The thought has barely taken shape in her head when she hears the approaching sound of heels clicking on porcelain tile. Who the fuck even insists on guests keeping their shoes on, anyway? Fucking Nadya.
“You going to share that or what?”
Sameen appears at the short edge of the counter and shrinks a second later to the sound of her shoes being kicked off. She’s pulling the bottle from her before Root realizes that her fingers are still wrapped around its neck.
The sorry dies on her lips, drowned in the bottom of her glass.
Maybe it’s the cognac, or the way Sameen looks at her from under those lashes as she sips, or the thought of the elusive Indigo that flits through her head at just the right (wrong) moment. Root moves slowly, or just thinks she does, reaching across the granite to catch her bottom lip between her own.
Sameen responds, fleetingly, the slightest returning pressure before she’s pulling back, pulling away. She can’t catch her eyes now. “We should go home.”
Root watches as she steps back into her shoes, wondering if she’ll leave her here if she doesn’t follow and knows she doesn’t want to find out.
“Okay.”
Shaw leaves her hair loose and slightly damp, cool on her bare shoulders as she pads out of the bathroom. Bear looks up from his bed, dragged in from the den in a blatant protest of being left alone all evening.
“Hey. Did you miss me?” She rubs the soft spot behind his ear, smiling as his head tilts into her hand. He settles down for the night with a soft whuff, resting his head on his paws.
A final pat and she turns to her own bed. Root is already sleeping, tucked in on her side. She sucks in a breath and shuts the light off, tugging off her sweatpants and tossing them on the end of the bed before sliding between the sheets. Exhaling slowly, quietly, she flips her hair over the back of her pillow before turning to stare at the darkness, at Root’s back.
The racerback she sleeps in accentuates the line of her shoulders, the bend of her spine, and she can only just remember a time when that same stretch of skin would be bared to her and wonders when that changed.
She thinks about saying something, like hey, are you awake? or I’m sorry. For earlier. For everything. For being the way she is. She could cross the distance, the gap of cotton and duvet, and touch her; she could press her hand against her skin, stretch her fingers across her ribcage and tuck her into the curve of her body the way she’s just remembering she likes.
Shaw doesn’t do any of those things. She rolls over to her other side and shuts her eyes and waits for morning to come. There’ll be another flight, another city, and another mission and with any luck, she won’t have to think about anything else for a while.