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For about the millionth time since that stupid pregnancy test, Shaw curses Root for having talked her into this. Kind of. Probably. She might have gone ahead with it anyway, but it’s still definitely Root’s fault that she’s this uncomfortable. And confined to the subway indefinitely, because Finch insisted it was too dangerous for her to be out and about with Samaritan’s watchful gaze everywhere. She can’t even drink to pass the time, for obvious reasons, and the pile of movies that Root left her along with a laptop are…suspect at best.
She lazily flings an arm off the cot and snatches one from the top of said pile, holding it up to inspect the cover. Sleepless in Seattle, it reads, and she grunts in disgust and throws it aside. How hard would it have been to pick up some good movies? Like Die Hard. Or, like, Independence Day. Something with explosions, at least.
The gate swings open and Shaw lifts her head slightly to see Root swanning into the subway, paper bag of something swinging from one hand and a duffel grasped in the other. “Got your favorite!” she sing-songs and drops the larger bag with a heavy thunk before walking over to Shaw’s cot. “Everything okay, honeybun?”
Shaw stays on her side and glares up. “…We’re not doing this again,” she growls. Root has made it something of a game over the past couple months, trying out dumb nicknames on her until presumably she lands on one that doesn’t immediately make Shaw want to shoot her.
Root’s lips purse in a pout and she perches on the edge of the cot. “Come on, turn that frown upside down!”
A vein pulses on Shaw’s temple, and she fights to ignore the cutesy barrage while reaching for the bag resting on Root’s lap. “Extra mustard?” she grunts, a twitch of stiffness in her back kicking in mid-word.
"I told you," Root says, pout becoming a smile, "your favorite." She opens the bag and extracts a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Shaw starts to reach for it, but Root swings her arm to hold it just out of reach. "Ah, ah!" she tsks. "What’s the magic word, sweetums?"
Shaw snarls and pushes herself up to a sitting position. “Now, Root.”
Root drops the sandwich in Shaw’s lap with a sigh, then fishes back into the bag and pulls out a dvd case. “Harold’s going to be gone for a while, so…movie night?” she says, eyes gleaming.
"What—" Shaw starts to ask while furiously unwrapping her dinner, then looks up to see the name of the movie glaring at her in bright, rainbow letters. "Not funny," she deadpans.
Root just grins. “That’s not what the reviews said!” She leans over and digs the laptop out from under the bed. “And you have to admit, it’s kind of appropriate right now…”
Shaw holds the sandwich protectively in front of her stomach, like that’d stop Root from drifting down to stare. “Hey, eyes up,” she grumbles. “And you’d have to tase me to make me watch that.”
Root’s smile turns feral, and there’s that particular glint in her eye that she always gets.
"Which you can’t do," Shaw says hurriedly, "because of the kid!"
Root shrugs. “Raincheck, then.” She nudges Shaw’s hip with her elbow. “Now, scooch over, baby mama, so I can get comfy.”
A muttered, “I hate you,” escapes her lips but Shaw slides over anyway to make room for Root.
An hour and a half later, Shaw has a new appreciation for the antics of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, but she’ll never let Root know.