Despite her grabby-hands, Shaw settles with her back to Root, facing the fire - though she still scootches backwards until she's pressed against her, reaching out to rest her fingertips on Root's arm.
She contemplates turning around and kissing her. She doesn't yet, but it's on her mind; now that there's no snow or walk or fire to distract her, how could it not be?
"I wondered sometimes if someone from home would show up," she says, quietly. "But I didn't think it would actually happen. I didn't think it would be you."
"Because I should be dead?" she asks frankly, not having missed that little detail.
Root has no such compunctions about holding back; no snow or walk or fire, Shaw settled back against her facing the fire and holding her arm, she nestles in and presses a chaste kiss to whatever skin she can find exposed on her neck.
She whispers, "You can't get rid of me that easily."
"The Machine kept telling me the odds were too long on finding you," Root murmurs against her ear, "but I kept trying anyway."
She doesn't mean that as an article of blind faith, that either of them should face any odds and they'll come out the other side. Root was well aware of the dangers, of the unlikelihood that she'd succeed, just as she understands Shaw had a tiny chance to ever see her again and had to find ways to keep going, knowing that. But pursuing Shaw, loving her, has always been about holding on to the smallest possibility, clinging with her fingertips to any bare purchase she could find.
Maybe they won't have long here, either, but she'll take every moment she can.
"Do you think this is weird?" she asks, in the way of someone who genuinely wants to know the answer. She certainly thinks it is, in a way that's a mix of both good and bad. It's off-kilter and unexpected, just like Root herself is; Root, who has made life exciting since the day that they met. Of course she'd show up out of nowhere like this.
But it's also off-kilter and unexpected in the way that the simulations had been - in the way of something that's designed to tire her out and make her question everything she thinks she knows and, eventually, destroy her. She doesn't particularly like that both things are true at the same time, that the conflicting feelings are all wrapped up in each other, but it is what it is.
She's not sure she totally gets the meaning behind the question, but Root does her best to answer honestly. With Shaw, she's abandoned trying to manipulate her long ago, certainly since her disappearance. She just treasures her being in her arms at all. Whether they're fighting or snuggling, she's just glad she's there.
"I've always been weird," she confesses. "And I'm still not convinced I'm not dead. Which is annoying, honestly, because I don't believe in the afterlife."
Logically, she should be dead, and this should be the afterlife. But there's nothing logical about life after death at all, so Root is being forced to question every basic tenant of reality as it is. Probably similar to what Shaw's going through with questioning whether this is a simulation.
"But so long as you're here, I won't take the chance that you're not real. Not my Sameen."
Her arms squeeze tightly around her, bracing, enough to suffocate. She couldn't live with believing the alternative, and betting wrong. Thinking Shaw was real -- real being a sentient, separate consciousness, an independent entity with a continuity to who Root had fallen for -- and being mistaken... that she could live with.
Ultimately, grudgingly, Shaw feels the same way: as much as both options would suck, she won't pick the one that risks actually hurting Root. The circumstances are different and so is the outcome, but to her, the decision not to assume she's a trick of the woods and walk away from her doesn't feel all that different from the choice to hold a gun to her head and pull the trigger. It's harm reduction, pure and simple.
"It's just annoying, being the only one that's weirded out by something," Shaw says - wriggling fussily in Root's grip, but pressing a palm to her arm to keep it mostly in place. "A lot of the people here are completely blasé about 'magic'."
Root knows what she means, but it's hard to articulate how to say it in response. She's sure Shaw is talking about the surrealness of constantly doubting whether she's experiencing reality or a simulation, but to Root it means something more, an intrinsic alienation from everyone else around her.
"Everything about this is weird, sweetheart," she answers, twisting so she pushes back against Shaw's fussing, pinning her half beneath her instead of spooning. "That doesn't mean it has to be all bad. Most people don't see it, don't know what they're looking at. But when we find something good, we have to hold onto it. Like I'm holding onto you."
Finding Shaw was magic. The existence of the Machine was magic. Root doesn't believe blindly, she thinks there's a rational explanation, but she believes.
She was pretty sure she read her correctly, so even though she's prepared to be wrong and genuinely checking in, there's more than a subtle note of teasing to her delivery. She knows Shaw is twice as strong as her and could flip her over any time.
"Sure, I love my ribs cracked and bruised." But she hears the genuine question underneath the teasing, so she adds, "You're fine. Might kick you off by accident in my sleep, though."
She generally prefers to sleep with her arms free and her frontal visibility unencumbered, but it's a lot easier to throw weight off her back in an emergency situation, so her conscious self is unbothered. Still, that doesn't necessarily mean that her unconscious self will agree.
She relents nonetheless, tugging them back to their original position with her as the big spoon. Something in her is calming, settling... a coiled-up part of her easing slowly into relaxation. Root isn't hypervigilant but she is normally vigilant, and it's been a wild few days preceded by immense stress.
"Fun later. I want you well-rested and awake when I pin you down."
It's flirtatious, teasing, but she's well aware they haven't crossed that line yet for real and she isn't taking it for granted. She presses her nose into Shaw's hair, eyes closing, but refrains from kissing.
When or if that moment happens, she's not going to waste it.
"I'm glad you're here," Shaw says quietly, so quietly that she's almost whispering the words. She reaches a hand out, fingers searching in the low light until they land on Bear's flank; he wiggles around to lick them. "You, too."
Shaw goes silent and still for a long time, after that: she twitches and shifts a little occasionally, but not in the way of someone who's truly uncomfortable. Her breathing is steady, like a sleeper's.
"I think there's something wrong with me," she says after a good half-hour has passed. She swallows. "Even more wrong with me than before, I mean. I'm being... changed."
Root's already drifted into dozing, exhausted and relieved; it takes a bit for her brain to kick into gear, process what she heard Shaw say. It's only thanks to her habit of sleeping with hair-trigger alertness that lets her catch it.
"Changed how?" she asks simply, waiting for more information before trying to reassure or address the problem.
Even though she's literally just chosen to voice the thought allowed, Shaw still hesitates. The change is still nothing more than a half-formed suspicion, and she's fully aware of how ridiculous this might sound.
"I'm stronger than I should be." Another swallow. "And anger... feels different. Like it's not my anger, but someone else's inside of me."
Root's been forced to accept a lot of ridiculous things already, and doubting Shaw isn't high on her list of options in any situation. She shifts, waking up a little more, drawing her arm up to trace her fingertips lightly up and down Shaw's arm where it's exposed on her side. She can be physically reassuring even if verbally she remains in threat-assessment mode.
"Are you worried about what you'll do?"
Stronger is something that can be proven empirically. The anger... is that what's bothering Shaw, or that she's changing at all?
And that's the thing: some of this change should be a good thing. Shaw, already in excellent shape even before she got here, has also been noticing a natural increase in her endurance levels and muscle tone, and the type of exercise she's been getting here is a very different sort from the type she'd gotten during soldier work. That's fine. That's great, in fact. But this is different.
She rolls over in Root's arms, expression dead serious as she faces her.
"If there's something inside me, how long until there's nothing left of me at all?"
How long until this unnamed thing makes her hurt people?
It's a legitimate question, and Root isn't going to brush it aside. But she can't form her own opinion yet until she learns more, and she's not the type to blindly agree with Shaw's perspective. Her loyalty is clear-eyed, and she likes to know the possible consequences.
"Slow down," she says, equally serious, mind fully jolting to awakeness now. The fire cracks and pops behind them. "Tell me what it's like. Start from the beginning."
She can't begin to handle the problem if she doesn't understand the full scope of what it is, and she guesses Shaw really isn't looking for empty reassurances here.
"Anger is the emotion I'm best at. But it's always been..."
She pauses, casting around for the most suitable adjective.
"Cold, hard, tight. I feel it, but it's still small and contained. Easy to control." She shifts restlessly in Root's arms, her brow furrowing. "Lately it feels hotter and bigger, like something burning inside me. It feel like if it got strong enough, I might not be able to control it. I might do things based on what the anger wants, not because of what I want."
The concept is familiar enough: she's well aware of how common it is for people to lash out, to let anger get the best of them, to act rashly because of it and then regret it later. But all the same, the idea of experiencing that herself is both strange and disquieting.
Maybe this seems obvious to Shaw, but it's new information for Root about how a person very precious to her works, and she holds it close inside. So she does feel anger, if distantly. More like a piece of information than a driving force, and maybe now she's feeling it that way for the first time, a pressure she can't ignore.
Root thinks this over, delicately and tenderly pushes some stray hair out of Shaw's face, tucks it behind the shell of her ear.
"You said I'm your safe place. That you couldn't hurt me. Is that still true?"
She's not looking for reassurance with this, either; she's going somewhere else.
It's said without hesitation - but since Shaw thinks she knows where she's going, it doesn't come without caveats.
"For now. But, Root-- I don't know if that'll always be true. There were simulations where I pointed a gun at you; where I told you I was going to kill you. I held out for a long, long time. But who's to say they won't get me there eventually?"
Her voice is quiet and controlled, but still tense. The way she mixes up the past and present tenses is the strongest sign of her being worked up.
"Oh, sweetie. I love that you don't want to hurt me."
It's very endearing, honestly. Both of them without speaking on it understand the difference between real harm and kinky fun; even when Shaw shot her in the shoulder early on, Root understood that as a leniency. Shaw's always gone soft on her compared to what she could do. Root, though...
She gently strokes the line of her cheekbone with a single fingertip, gaze piercing and direct and words so sweet it hurts her to speak. This is the most reassuring thing she can think of to say, to answer her real concerns rather than wash them over with platitudes.
"But I can hurt you if I need to. If you point a gun at me, I'm not going to just stand there like a weepy damsel. If I think you're losing control, I'll take care of it. I just need that one moment of hesitation where you're second-guessing whether you'll really take me out."
In a fair fight it's a real toss up who would come out on top, but Root never intends to fight fair. Shaw's skin is so soft against her fingers, hand cupping her jaw.
"The last time I had a gun out when I was losing control, you pointed your gun at yourself, not me," Shaw points out, grinding her chin down against Root's palm. Which, no, she doesn't actually think that Root would do that in every situation regardless of the context. But on the whole, she still wishes she'd gone for a takedown instead of brazenly offering to go all-in in a double suicide.
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She contemplates turning around and kissing her. She doesn't yet, but it's on her mind; now that there's no snow or walk or fire to distract her, how could it not be?
"I wondered sometimes if someone from home would show up," she says, quietly. "But I didn't think it would actually happen. I didn't think it would be you."
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Root has no such compunctions about holding back; no snow or walk or fire, Shaw settled back against her facing the fire and holding her arm, she nestles in and presses a chaste kiss to whatever skin she can find exposed on her neck.
She whispers, "You can't get rid of me that easily."
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A pleasant little shiver runs through her - it's subtle, but Root is close enough that she'll probably feel it. Her fingers press into Root's skin.
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She doesn't mean that as an article of blind faith, that either of them should face any odds and they'll come out the other side. Root was well aware of the dangers, of the unlikelihood that she'd succeed, just as she understands Shaw had a tiny chance to ever see her again and had to find ways to keep going, knowing that. But pursuing Shaw, loving her, has always been about holding on to the smallest possibility, clinging with her fingertips to any bare purchase she could find.
Maybe they won't have long here, either, but she'll take every moment she can.
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But it's also off-kilter and unexpected in the way that the simulations had been - in the way of something that's designed to tire her out and make her question everything she thinks she knows and, eventually, destroy her. She doesn't particularly like that both things are true at the same time, that the conflicting feelings are all wrapped up in each other, but it is what it is.
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"I've always been weird," she confesses. "And I'm still not convinced I'm not dead. Which is annoying, honestly, because I don't believe in the afterlife."
Logically, she should be dead, and this should be the afterlife. But there's nothing logical about life after death at all, so Root is being forced to question every basic tenant of reality as it is. Probably similar to what Shaw's going through with questioning whether this is a simulation.
"But so long as you're here, I won't take the chance that you're not real. Not my Sameen."
Her arms squeeze tightly around her, bracing, enough to suffocate. She couldn't live with believing the alternative, and betting wrong. Thinking Shaw was real -- real being a sentient, separate consciousness, an independent entity with a continuity to who Root had fallen for -- and being mistaken... that she could live with.
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"It's just annoying, being the only one that's weirded out by something," Shaw says - wriggling fussily in Root's grip, but pressing a palm to her arm to keep it mostly in place. "A lot of the people here are completely blasé about 'magic'."
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"Everything about this is weird, sweetheart," she answers, twisting so she pushes back against Shaw's fussing, pinning her half beneath her instead of spooning. "That doesn't mean it has to be all bad. Most people don't see it, don't know what they're looking at. But when we find something good, we have to hold onto it. Like I'm holding onto you."
Finding Shaw was magic. The existence of the Machine was magic. Root doesn't believe blindly, she thinks there's a rational explanation, but she believes.
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Root presses harder.
"I thought you liked it this way."
She was pretty sure she read her correctly, so even though she's prepared to be wrong and genuinely checking in, there's more than a subtle note of teasing to her delivery. She knows Shaw is twice as strong as her and could flip her over any time.
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She generally prefers to sleep with her arms free and her frontal visibility unencumbered, but it's a lot easier to throw weight off her back in an emergency situation, so her conscious self is unbothered. Still, that doesn't necessarily mean that her unconscious self will agree.
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"Fun later. I want you well-rested and awake when I pin you down."
It's flirtatious, teasing, but she's well aware they haven't crossed that line yet for real and she isn't taking it for granted. She presses her nose into Shaw's hair, eyes closing, but refrains from kissing.
When or if that moment happens, she's not going to waste it.
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"I think there's something wrong with me," she says after a good half-hour has passed. She swallows. "Even more wrong with me than before, I mean. I'm being... changed."
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"Changed how?" she asks simply, waiting for more information before trying to reassure or address the problem.
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"I'm stronger than I should be." Another swallow. "And anger... feels different. Like it's not my anger, but someone else's inside of me."
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"Are you worried about what you'll do?"
Stronger is something that can be proven empirically. The anger... is that what's bothering Shaw, or that she's changing at all?
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She rolls over in Root's arms, expression dead serious as she faces her.
"If there's something inside me, how long until there's nothing left of me at all?"
How long until this unnamed thing makes her hurt people?
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"Slow down," she says, equally serious, mind fully jolting to awakeness now. The fire cracks and pops behind them. "Tell me what it's like. Start from the beginning."
She can't begin to handle the problem if she doesn't understand the full scope of what it is, and she guesses Shaw really isn't looking for empty reassurances here.
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She pauses, casting around for the most suitable adjective.
"Cold, hard, tight. I feel it, but it's still small and contained. Easy to control." She shifts restlessly in Root's arms, her brow furrowing. "Lately it feels hotter and bigger, like something burning inside me. It feel like if it got strong enough, I might not be able to control it. I might do things based on what the anger wants, not because of what I want."
The concept is familiar enough: she's well aware of how common it is for people to lash out, to let anger get the best of them, to act rashly because of it and then regret it later. But all the same, the idea of experiencing that herself is both strange and disquieting.
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Root thinks this over, delicately and tenderly pushes some stray hair out of Shaw's face, tucks it behind the shell of her ear.
"You said I'm your safe place. That you couldn't hurt me. Is that still true?"
She's not looking for reassurance with this, either; she's going somewhere else.
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It's said without hesitation - but since Shaw thinks she knows where she's going, it doesn't come without caveats.
"For now. But, Root-- I don't know if that'll always be true. There were simulations where I pointed a gun at you; where I told you I was going to kill you. I held out for a long, long time. But who's to say they won't get me there eventually?"
Her voice is quiet and controlled, but still tense. The way she mixes up the past and present tenses is the strongest sign of her being worked up.
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It's very endearing, honestly. Both of them without speaking on it understand the difference between real harm and kinky fun; even when Shaw shot her in the shoulder early on, Root understood that as a leniency. Shaw's always gone soft on her compared to what she could do. Root, though...
She gently strokes the line of her cheekbone with a single fingertip, gaze piercing and direct and words so sweet it hurts her to speak. This is the most reassuring thing she can think of to say, to answer her real concerns rather than wash them over with platitudes.
"But I can hurt you if I need to. If you point a gun at me, I'm not going to just stand there like a weepy damsel. If I think you're losing control, I'll take care of it. I just need that one moment of hesitation where you're second-guessing whether you'll really take me out."
In a fair fight it's a real toss up who would come out on top, but Root never intends to fight fair. Shaw's skin is so soft against her fingers, hand cupping her jaw.
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