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vixey-chakraborty · 3 years

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The Investment [Part One] & [Vixmus]

In which Vixey reaches out to a family friend for an investment...[takes place: late June, 2021]

@apennywasted

[tw -- none]

VIXEY: While Vixey trusted Jun’s judgement, she was still nervous to meet with Seamus MacTunnag. Even if she did know him through her parents, it only put more pressure on her to come off well. Since this meeting would reflect on them too. If he said no, she wasn’t sure where she would go next. Probably to InterPride. That was her next stop anyway, as she had to discuss the lease agreement. Or maybe this would just be a dead end. Vixey was still waiting for all of this to fall apart on her. Even if she did feel slightly bolstered by her various friends’ encouragement.

She had called Mr. MacTunnag and arranged to meet him at Hatter’s. It was a nice day, so she bought herself an iced coffee and sat out on the patio. When she saw him approaching, she stood up, reaching out a hand for him to shake.

“Mr. MacTunnag,” she greeted him with a smile. “Thank you so much for meeting with me. I really appreciate you taking the time. Can I buy you a coffee?” [outfit]

SEAMUS: Seamus had a visitor today, and it was one he knew fairly well, through her parents. They lived close to one another, their properties while not sharing a border fairly close, and he’d become fairly friendly with her parents after a bit of time living in Besydus. Rather than meet her on her farm, however, Vixey had asked him to meet her at Hatter’s for a discussion regarding her shoppe.

While he was all too happy to oblige her, he needed to know what she was asking him, specifically, to invest in.

Arriving a bit earlier than intended, Seamus had wanted to get a seat but had discovered that Vixey had beat him to Hatter’s already. He offered her a small smile when she stood and offered her hand for a shake. He took it, shook her hand firmly, before dropping her hand, unbuttoning his suit jacket, and sitting across from her.

“Ah, that'd be lovely Ms. Chakraborty, thank ye kindly. Jus’ a regular coffee is fine, nothin’ fancy. But, I s’pose we should get right tah th’ point, aye?”

VIXEY: “Great,” Vixey said with a smile. “I’ll be right back and we can get started.”

Vixey didn’t really want to “get right to the point,” but maybe that was just how she grew up. If you had a favor to ask someone, you started with pleasantries and worked your way towards asking after a long and meandering conversation. Vixey asking about Seamus grand-nephews (I know they have a birthday coming up!) Seamus commenting on the farm (It looks like you have a good crop of strawberries this season.)

Seamus was a businessman, though. It made sense they were going to “get right to the point.”

She grabbed the coffee and made it back to the table in just a few minutes. A few minutes that had filled her with jittery anxiety as she handed Seamus his coffee and took a seat again.

“Right, so, I don’t know how much my mama has told you…” Vixey started and wondered if that was a good place. Maybe not. Maybe she shouldn’t assume anything. Her fingers fiddled with the cardboard cozy on her drink.

“I am looking to open up a shoppe here on Main Street. A thrift shoppe.”

SEAMUS: He knew that it was not how people in Swynlake did business, getting right down to the heart of the matter. That was the way of businessmen in New York and Japan, people he had worked with who didn’t do roundabout or meandering business deals. It was easier, sometimes, to do things this way. Other times, like now, it might behoove him to do otherwise, but he wasn’t about to change his tactics in the middle of the situation.

Vixey left and then she came back with his coffee and Seamus smiled. He thanked her. He was polite, took a sip of the coffee and nodded to tell her that it was alright. There was nothing complicated in it, and that was the way he liked these dealings, if he could get them this way. He didn’t mean to be abrupt, or forward. Any other time he would ask how the farm was doing, and had, how she was personally, and he still might, but he wanted to hear what she wanted, too.

And that always, always came first.

Seamus waited for her, patient, hands folded around the cardboard cozy around his take away mug. She started by talking about her mam and he grinned his crooked grin at her, the one that was, some would say, charming and others disarming. To him, it was just a smile.

“Yer mam’s spoken a bit about ye, told me yer lookin’ tah expand out a bit,” he confirmed, then continued. “But I’d like tah know what yer wantin’ tah do with yer thrift shoppe, what I could be investin’ in. ‘S a smart idea, considerin’ th’ closest clothing shoppe is in NTO.”

VIXEY: You would think people continuously telling her that her shoppe was a good idea would make Vixey feel more confident in it. In a way, it did, but she kept being more caught off guard by the see through nature of business dealings. It wasn’t all like in the movies, which made it look dastardly and underhanded.

Seamus knew why he was here, and he was getting right to the point. Vixey had to shuffle the notecards in her head around to accommodate for this fact. She took a sip of tea, wiggled in her seat a bit and then leaned over to pull out the binder she had been using to store all the notes and information on the shoppe. Inside was a bit of an aesthetic lookbook, pulled from magazines and Pinterest. Notes from several business start up how-to books, color coded by content and with a proper bibliography. There was a budget too, though probably not fully complete.

“This is all I have on it so far,” she told him, pushing it toward him. “It’s simple, really. In concept. I just—noticed the lack of shopping and know how inconvenient that can be for families who aren’t as wealthy as some of the others in town. It kind of feels as if they can get left behind a bit…” She shrugged a shoulder.

“I know I have competition with Tallulah Robinson, but I have a feeling we will be catering to very different needs in the town.” She wished she sounded more certain about this, but she was really just parroting what everyone else had told her.

SEAMUS: Seamus waited patiently for Vixey to get her wiggles out, the nerves clear. She probably hadn't been expecting him to be so to the point. That was okay. It meant he would be able to make an offer sooner, see what he could give to this project. He had high hopes for it, based on both what her mother had spoken of when they'd chatted and now.

He was impressed when she pulled the binder out and set it on the table. His hands itched to leaf through it, see what information hid there, but he waited, waited patiently, his hands folded around his coffee. He would let her speak, and then he would look through it all and respond.

The lookbook made him chuckle and he nodded as he skimmed through it. It was a good idea, a way to visualize the projected space, what she wanted to do with the business. Gave investors a sense she knew where she was headed. Her notes were good, too, the bibliography helpful.

Then, there was the budget. That's where he came in.

Closing the binder, Seamus tapped his knuckles against the cover, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he gave her a small smile. "This 's all good. Yer clearly prepared or as much as ye can be. Budget's incomplete, though I think yer aware. 'S where I come in ain't it?"

Seamus knew it was.

"Ye an' Miss Robinson will be catering tah different ideals," he agreed, matter-of-fact. "And tah be honest, I think yer shoppe has more traction. I know I'd've appreciated a place like this growin' up. Me family was a lot like the ones yer targetin'."

He paused and then: "how much are ye needin'?" He could really give any amount. Hell, he could probably fund the entire project, but he knew to be careful. Vixey was just starting out. While her ideas were good, the competition (and potential competitor sabotage from Tallulah) were things he was definitely thinking about.

VIXEY: Vixey waited anxiously while Seamus looked through the binder. At first, she just kind of stared at him, but when it was clear that he was going to be taking his time, she looked away. She took a sip of coffee. And watched people going by on the sidewalk. A family, a man with his dog, people who were hurrying to get somewhere, people who were moseying along. People taking pictures and people pointing. The sidewalk was swollen with tourists, as it often was in the summer.

It entertained her for a bit, but it didn’t stop her from thinking anxiously about what Seamus was thinking. There hadn’t been any advice about how to organize your business. There were all sorts of things about the to do lists and the steps, but not putting it all together. She didn’t know if there was some industry format she was missing. If Seamus would know it and think her ignorant.

She was ignorant, after all. About how business worked, anyway. And she wanted it to succeed. Even if she was still unsure about how much.

The napkin she’d gotten with her drink was getting shredded in her lap. Her eyes snapped to Seamus as he leaned back and closed the book. She nodded a little at his question, unsure what else to say. It was the truth. She was here to ask him to invest. There was no getting around it really.

Vixey managed a smile about the little anecdote he told. After all, that was why she was doing this. For families that needed it. It wasn’t frivolous. It was important.

“Yes, well, uhm,” she tripped over her words but then managed to find them. “30,000 pounds is the total amount. I may have over calculated slightly, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

SEAMUS: Seamus knew she was only beginning her endeavor, that there were risks involved in backing someone who had no prior experience. He'd been one of those himself, once upon a time. But the ideas that he was seeing were good ones, a place to start.

His eyes swept down to the napkin she had clutched between her hands, torn nearly to shreds and scattered on the tabletop. He refrained from drawing attention to it. She was clearly nervous, but his story seemed to have helped. That was good, then.

Nodding, Seamus reaches into his coat pocket and pulled out his check book. "How's ten thousand pounds sound tah ye? 'S a start, gives ye a chance tah network. More experience fer ye and potential backers."

VIXEY: 10,000 pounds?

That was more money than Vixey had ever seen in her life. She hadn’t known what to expect, or how much to except, when she met with Seamus today. Honestly, she hadn’t expected anything at all. Maybe a rejection. Maybe encouragement but no offer for a loan. And she would appreciate whatever she got. She would be humble and grateful.

And she was!

Ten thousand pounds was just...so much money! It didn’t even scratch the surface either, which was entirely wild to her.

Still...she’d be an idiot not to take it, especially after she had worked so hard to get to this point.

“Wow, yes. That’d be--that’d be amazing Mr. MacTunnag. Amazing, actually. Thank you so much!”

#bdrpseamus #vixmus #the investment #part one #lookbook

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therealjammy · 6 years

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Awake

A probably badly-written fic in honor of Femslash February and Valentine’s Day even though this takes place in May. Slightly NSFW too.

May, 2017

You’re not surprised to find Root at your apartment, nor are you surprised when Bear practically bounds across the room to her as soon as he’s free from his leash. She pets him enthusiastically, even gives him little kisses on the head. “I missed you!” she tells him in a voice that bears a hint of baby-talk. He licks her cheeks and her palms and attempts to lick at her mouth, but she shies away, makes a face. She only likes your mouth on her lips.

Your bedroom is tidy but evidence of her travels are piled up in the empty corner by your dresser: two large suitcases, a black duffel bag that could either contain a week’s worth of dirty, wrinkled laundry or shiny new weapons disassembled for travel, and a few plastic bags that look suspiciously like they’re from touristy shops. She’d been gone for three weeks, two of them spent in Oregon, the last spent in California. If you think back on it, the summer sun had kissed her skin, just to the point of a very light tan. Her cheeks had still been red, probably from lounging too long on a beach. You think that if you open one of these duffel bags you’d smell the salt and the wind that’d caressed her in your stead.

“Want to hear about my adventures on the West Coast?” she asks when you reemerge in the living area. Like Bear, she’s taken up residence by the cooling unit underneath the window. It blows little strands of her hair into her face.

“I noticed you didn’t get shot.”

She wrinkles her nose, but there’s a smile tugging at all her facial features. “Surprisingly, there was very little of that. It was mostly stealth work. And new asset meetings, with a healthy serving of server farms.” She stretches herself out on the couch. Her bare feet dangle over the edge of the armrest. “I may have brought you a fancy new toy.” She points to the bedroom. “Black suitcase, bright green luggage tag. Look underneath everything.”

So you do. You set aside shirts and jeans and underwear that’s far from practical and find a new gun. It’s a smaller submachine gun, disassembled, of course, so that it would fit comfortably in the suitcase. You take the whole thing back into the living area. “You realize you’re just adding to a growing collection where I only use my two favorites?” you ask.

“What can I say? I’m a bit of an impulse buyer.” She sits up, points at the thing. “Semi-automatic, compact build so that it’s more comfortable for someone your size, with single or burst fire. Even comes with a scope and silencer.”

“Did you raid a gun range or something?”

“Not a gun range, per se. Let’s just say this was a stealthy side-quest.” She’s studying you now, in that way she does. Hand on chin, ankles crossed, fond smile. “Maybe you could test it out on a perp.”

You say, “A lot of these guns are wasted on kneecaps.” It would be better against paper soldiers, or leftover Samaritan operatives.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to hit the range,” Root says. She leaves you with the suitcase, disappearing into your bedroom and coming back out with a folded something. She unfolds it when she’s standing in front of you; it’s a navy shirt that says A friend went to Cali and didn’t invite me along.

“I’m not wearing that,” you say.

“Even though it’s 100% cotton?” Damn her and her knowledge of your shirt material preferences.

You grab it from her. It’s a laundry day shirt, you decide. Or a lazy Sunday morning shirt.

—

“Someone missed me.”

“You were gone for three weeks.” Your lips travel lower, over the soft plane of her throat. You taste salt and maybe a light sharpness of the perfume she’d sprayed on this morning. Something for a cover, maybe. Another bottle to add to that ever-growing collection in her bathroom drawer. “A girl can get bored.”

“So you admit I’m interesting.” Her fingers card through your hair, nails digging pleasantly into your scalp and scraping along. Root’s breath hitches slightly when you nibble at the point of a collarbone. “That’s new.”

You snort. “No.” You move your hands from her waist to her back, undoing her bra.

“You ever learn to do that with one hand?”

“It’s not an important skill.” You slide the straps down her shoulders; she helps you shrug it off.

“Even if I told you it’s hot?”

What kinds of strange things does Root think sometimes? you wonder, exhaling an amused breath. You pull her closer to you and kiss the scar on her chest. A single, brutal white star. How lucky she was to be alive. How lucky you both were to be in this moment, where her hips move desperately against your thigh when you take her nipple into your mouth. She holds your head in place, one hand gently cupping the base of your skull, the other a demanding grip on your hair. You stay here, teasing her, kneading one breast while kissing the other, until she pulls your head up to kiss you.

“We have all night,” Root says. There’s an eager gleam on her face. It speaks of all the things she wants to do.

“Then lie back,” you tell her.

She lets you take the reins and looks perfectly happy to be handing them over. There are still orders, of course, but there’s a little freedom too. It starts plainly, just your head framed by her legs, and her hands alternating between pulling at your hair and kneading her own breasts. It goes up from there, until you’re wrapped around her and groaning right into her good ear. She falls not long after you, with a whispered “Sameen” and a pause in breath, body curling inward. You let her lay on you, still inside, for a few minutes. You trace lines over her slick back and even though you can’t see it, you know she has a mask of contentment. After those few minutes are up, she pecks you on the mouth before pulling out and giving you space.

Your recovery is serenaded by her shower.

[…]

The morning bears traces of summer. With it comes a certain feeling of nostalgia, a feeling you’ve been feeling a lot of recently. Perhaps it’s because your most pleasant memories are of summers spent in Manhattan, trying different restaurants with Baba and Maman, seeing baseball games at the Yankee stadium even though there were never teams that you liked, and even seeing the occasional show. But the mid-afternoon air, not yet hot because summer is still a good month away, reminds you of sitting in the backyard with books. There’s even a breeze.

You’re walking back from lunch with Root. She’d taken you to Katz’s, a legendary sandwich place on Houston Street. The number had been a hassle. Squirmy, too, especially when you laid the cuffs on and handed him over to Lionel. Your morning had been filled with people work, a different sort of exhaustion than chasing the number down Madison Avenue. People are tolerable to an extent, and Root knows this well.

“I think it’s time for a recovery sandwich, don’t you?” she’d said when you were leaving the scene. You gladly let her drag you along and immediately felt your irritation disappear when you saw where she’d dragged you.

“I used to have corned beef sandwiches at Hanna’s,” Root says to you on the subway. “It was a sleepover tradition, especially if it was a Friday.” She sighs, a mix of sad and something you can’t identify. “She’d love Katz’s corned beef.”

“I’m sure,” you say. You still don’t know much about Hanna, or Root’s childhood. It’s something she doesn’t talk about unless she wants to, or when an experience you’ve just had is similar to one she had back then. But it’s fair. She doesn’t know much about your childhood either, aside from what she read in your file—the real one—and what the Machine told her the day she kidnapped you.

You get off at the usual stop, the one that has Root’s favorite doughnut shop in all the city. She pops into it and purchases a chocolate éclair for herself and an assorted half-dozen box for you. You eat at the cluster of red tables. As of now, you’re still full from lunch, and so you only eat one doughnut and half of another. Impressively, Root finishes her éclair and licks the sticky icing from her fingers. Your mind flashes briefly to last night, but the memory goes as quickly as it came.

“Good?” you ask.

“Almost as good a pick-me-up as coffee.” Root crumples the wrapper and her used napkin and tosses them into the trash nearby.

—

The Machine spits out a new number at 4:55 PM that evening, and according to Root, it’s slightly time-sensitive. She tells you to stop by her Times Square apartment. When you hang up, you conceal your favorite compact weapons and grab your keys and wallet. You take a taxi to Root’s apartment. The door is already ajar when you enter, and the room smells like a Calvin Klein perfume. You find Root in her bedroom, standing in a black cocktail dress and trying on heels. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and small diamond earrings decorate her lobes. On the bed is another dry-cleaning bag.

“That looks suspicious,” you say, jerking your chin at the bag. “Is this a black-tie dinner?”

“The restaurant we’re going to is a little on the fancier side,” Root says, stepping out of a pair of black heels and switching them for two-inch ones that’re royal blue. “The number is headed there right now, and then she’s headed for a show in the Theatre District that’s being put on in her honor. So,” Root continues, tapping the bag with a fingernail, “I need you to get dressed.”

The dress she’d picked out for you is not unlike the one you’d worn at your Bloomingdale’s day-job, though this dress lacks the plunging neckline. It fits snugly but comfortably. A little more form-fitting than Root’s, whose dress has a bit of a flare after the waist.

“I like the black shoes better,” you tell her from the bathroom. You’re putting some of her hairspray into your hair so that pesky little strands will stay in place for most of the night.

“What if this outfit needs a pop of color?” she asks. “I have some red pumps in the back of the closet.” She frowns at her reflection for a moment, and then shrugs. “The black ones are a little more practical anyway.”

The high-end restaurant was a fifteen-minute cab ride away, and you discover that its patrons are a mix of well-dressed and casually dressed. There’s a good chance that the well-dressed ones are also attending the show just across the street. While you wait for your number to be called, you wait at a booth with a small table. Root brings back two wineglasses, filled with white wine, and a menu.

“She tells me the number’s seated upstairs,” Root says. “Our table will be two away from hers.” She’s looking around the place. Neither of you have been here before. “This place used to be a bank. You’ll see some artwork when we go up those stairs.”

That’s what’s fascinating about New York. There’s history to every building you walk into or pass, many stories of those who came before.

“I think you’ll like the pizza,” Root continues. “It’s some of the best in town.”

Your table is ready about ten minutes later. It’s a Thursday night, and the crowd is pretty dense. The Machine must’ve worked something out. You follow a hostess up the steps, being careful not to spill your wine. You pass the number’s table and get a look at her: mid-forties, greying brown hair up in a bun, old-timey black dress that looks made for a funeral, no wedding ring. You have a good view of her from your corner table. Root’s careful not to sit in your field of vision, but she’s still close enough that the toe of her heel brushes against your ankle. A waiter comes by for drink orders. You order a glass of water; Root gets a Coke. Then, on a second thought, you order an appetizer of fried calamari.

“I may have lied a little about this place,” Root says after a while, when the appetizer is half eaten.

“Hmm?” you say, mouth full.

“It’s true I haven’t been here before, but I heard the name for the first time a long time ago, not tonight.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her good ear. “There was someone I worked with briefly, when I was a contract killer. Jane Hargrove. She uh… she was a stagehand for Shakespeare in the Park, mainly, but her specialty was forging false documents and identification cards. That aspect of her life was well-hidden, of course. But she would go to shows often, and it was a tradition that she came to this restaurant beforehand. It was a part of her childhood, she’d said, and recommended it highly.” She pauses, catches her breath. “I guess it’s been on my bucket list for twelve years.”

Looking around the place, you can see why. The lights are dim and comforting, and the atmosphere is something like a liminal space. Slightly strange, slightly surreal. A place where time doesn’t exist, at least until you check your watch. “I can see why,” you tell Root. “I like it.”

A pleased smile crosses her face. “Good.”

When the waiter comes back around, Root asks him to explain the pizza. It comes fresh from the woodfire ovens and cools on a pizza rack, which is carried to the table. “And,” he adds, “you can get whatever toppings you’d like.”

You have to applaud the number for her good taste, and maybe the Machine too. When you’re working your way through a third slice of meat-lovers pizza, you briefly wonder if the Machine had sorted through Yelp reviews or something to find this place. You wouldn’t put it past Her. She’s always recommending something these days.

Two tables away, the number rises from her chair. She adjusts the purse on her shoulder and shakes hands with two men in expensive suits.

“The show starts in forty-five minutes,” Root says, noticing where your eyes have drifted. “When was the last time you were at a show?”

“Summer of ’89,” you say off the bat. “It was Les Misérables.”

Root raises her brows. “Really?”

“I’ll admit it was much better than that Mamma Mia! production Harold almost made John and I go to.”

“Would’ve been miserable,” Root says. She nibbles at the last of a piece of crust and then hands the rest to you. Later she says there isn’t time for dessert, and promises to make it up to you.

The theatre is full of people. It’s smaller than Broadway, where you’d gone to see that production of Les Misérables; more intimate. You can smell the cologne of the forty-something sitting on your left and the sweetness of Root’s shampoo, her Calvin Klein perfume, and the fabric of her dress. There’s enough room between you that her feet don’t brush yours. There’s a small battle for the armrest, and in the end she lets you have it, smiling in amusement at your exasperation. Above you hang chandeliers with amber lightbulbs, and the stage is decorated the same way. There are tables there with people and water glasses. You wonder how much those sods had to pay for those on-stage seats. It dawns on you, then, that you don’t even know the name of the show you’re seeing. You turn to Root and ask, “What is it?”

“The Great Comet,” she replies. “The number was a producer for one of the very first showings of it. This is the last New York show before they go on the tour next month and get touring actors instead of the original cast.” She looks down the rows, jerks her chin at the number. “We’ll have to stay for a while. No telling if someone’s after her, or the other way around.”

The first half of the show passes without incident. During intermission, you freshen up in the bathroom while Root wanders off to bluejack the number’s phone. Back in the theatre, she scrolls through information, and by the look on her face, the Machine is speaking to her.

“Anything?” you ask.

“It appears she was keeping something quiet,” Root replies, keeping her voice low. She passes you her phone. On it is an article from the Times. Laura Sewell, Producer of musical The Great Comet, Issues Restraining Order against Ex-Husband. “The divorce wasn’t made public either.”

You nod. “Safe to say it’s the ex-husband?”

“I think so.”

The theatre lights dim again until it’s only the glow from the chandeliers. Then it begins again. It doesn’t hold your interest much—you’ve never had interest in romantic drama, nor in Tolstoy—but the thing that does is how invested Root seems to be. She’s sitting up in her chair rather than slouching, eyes zeroed in on the stage, the lights above you casting a pleasant play of light and shadow on her features. You know things are beautiful, like a fine cut of steak, or your favorite weapon, but a person? Perhaps, you think, tearing your gaze away from Root to stop the onslaught of foreign emotion crawling into your belly, it’s possible. Possible with Root, anyway. But it’s also possible that this emotion coursing through you is contentment. Despite everything, it’s led up to this moment, and she’s alive, and she’s happy, and you’re alive too. Somehow your hand finds hers, and in the chaos that is the cheering and standing ovation at the end of the show, you give it a meaningful squeeze.

The moment is interrupted, of course, by a sudden shot ringing out. People scream and duck, but you’re already on your feet, moving towards the front of the theatre where a crowd has gathered. Three men are wrestling another to the ground, while a fourth pries a gun from his hand. Not far away is Laura Sewell, collapsed in a heap on the ground and bleeding from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. You kneel next to her, telling the others sternly “I’m a doctor.” Several people are already dialing 911.

—

The fiasco at the theatre is bound to make the front page of tomorrow morning’s newspaper. The ex-husband will most likely be placed in jail for attempted murder, and Laura Sewell can move on with her life without fear of her ex-husband coming after her.

“Well,” Root says when you’re in the back of a cab, “that was eventful.” She takes off a heel and rubs at her foot with the pad of her thumb. “But what did you think of the show?”

“It was okay.”

Root smirks. “Better than ‘I hated it.’”

—

You don’t know what it is, but there’s something oddly alluring about watching Root undress and unwind. She does this in the bathroom with the door wide open, starting with her shoes. You lounge on the bed, your own shoes kicked to the foot of it, already dressed in a tank top and comfortable shorts, your hair down. Root turns to the mirror and lets her own hair down. It settles on her shoulders in its gentle waves. Already you want to reach out and touch her, run your fingers through those waves, or tug on them to expose her throat. You think you may have given yourself away, because when your eyes meet in the mirror, hers are warm and knowing, and there’s a satisfied smirk on her face.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” you huff. She’s slipping out of her dress now. It snags on her waist before finally slipping off and falling into a heap around her ankles.

“I’m letting you enjoy the after-show,” she says. Which, you admit, isn’t bad. The only thing she’s wearing is a pair of underwear, the plain black kind, but they’re women’s boxer briefs. Probably took a fashion hint from you, much like her new “moves” in hand-to-hand combat—which she claims to have learned all on her own and not from watching you.

“I’d like it more if I could see it up close.”

She turns around, flicks the bathroom light off. She’s a mix of city lights and the darkness of the room when she makes her way to your bed, and in the different color lights, you see gooseflesh on her skin from the chilly AC. She settles herself fully in your lap, hands on your shoulders. “This close enough for you?”

You smell her hair and her light perfume and even a little hint of something purely herself. You lean to kiss her, and drag your nose along the column of her throat, lips following too. Normally you would be rough with her, practically wrestling each other on your way to the bedroom, but something wants to be a little softer. Just hold her for a minute. All the while she keeps her hands on your shoulders, fingers flexing in pleasure and trying to keep up a balancing act.

“Your hair’s getting long,” you comment later.

“Haven’t had the time to go into a salon,” Root says.

“Or the effort,” you add. Root hums in agreement. You move a few strands to her shoulder. You brush her nipple with your thumb, absorbing her elevated breathing. Eventually she takes your hand away and pushes at your shoulders until you’re lying against the pillows.

“I think you’re wearing too much, Sam.”

[…]

Of course, the warmer weather is dampened by a day of clouds and rainfall. The morning of it, Root is reluctant to leave the warmth of your bed even though you can tell the Machine is getting rather insistent.

“New number?” you ask.

“No,” she says, practically a groan. “Asset meet-and-greet with a side of server farm checkups.”

And so, after twenty minutes of keeping Root company in bed and another ten dozing while she showered, your morning is spent alone. You eat breakfast, start laundry, take Bear for a walk, and tidy up the messes that Root had been too distracted to clean up in her days spent here. You’re sweeping the wood floors in the living area when you hear your phone ringing on your nightstand. To your surprise, it isn’t Root calling about cancelled plans, but Lionel.

“Did you get a handsy perp again, Lionel?” you ask, glad he can’t see the little smirk tugging up the corner of your mouth.

“Won’t know till we see ‘em,” he replies. “The guy’s on his day off, spending it at Coney Island with his kid. Wanna give me a hand, or are you too busy with Butterball?”

“Root’s off playing trainee. You gonna give me a ride?”

“Let me guess, you’re gonna ask me to get you a New Yorker dog on the way over.”

“No, just when we get to the overpriced playground.” It mustn’t be raining at Coney Island, then. Weather is funny that way.

—

Lionel pulls up to your apartment building in a Crown Victoria. The normal-looking one, not the undercover cop car. You suppose, now that he’s actually working for the Machine as a second job, he had enough money to buy himself a nicer car.

“There a reason you got a new car that’s the same model cops use?” you ask while climbing into the passenger seat. The car still smells new, but underneath that is the slight stink of sweaty hockey gear—thanks to Lee—and maybe falafel.

“They’re good cars,” Lionel shoots back. “Comfy seats too.” He turns the windshield wipers on. “Hope it’s not raining over there.”

For a while the ride is quiet. It’s a more comfortable silence between you, a dynamic that changed during the half-year you thought Root was dead. With John dangling over the precipice of life and death in an upstate safehouse and Finch somewhere in the Italian landscape with Grace and Root god-knows-where, Lionel was really the only person there. Aside from the Machine and Bear. You’d grown closer between chasing numbers and seeing each other between. Sometimes you’d see him just doing something as mundane as walking Bear in Central Park, and though those walks were mostly silent, you were glad to have his company, and Lee’s, if the kid was there.

“How’s the old chip doing?” you ask.

“Stayin’ outta trouble. Playin’ on the local hockey team. They’re the Lions this year. Not sure if it’ll stick.”

“They’ve changed names what, twice now?”

“Three. But the uniforms look better. A classy black and gold.” He merges into traffic and you’re off. “You’re welcome to attend a game sometime.”

The words stir something inside your chest, but you say, “What, is Lee getting tired of an audience of one?”

“Don’t make me pull this over.”

“Oh, you know I’d rather ride in a cab than in your car any day,” you say, and almost put your feet up on the dash.

#root x shaw #femslash february #i might delete this off tumblr depending on how well it does #we'll see #sorry i'm not the AU writer you wish I was

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