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punksarahreese · 3 years

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Gloves | 4 mg Ativan

Nosdecember day 14 | @neworleansspecial

Anxious!Ava; Ava’s sensory issues get in the way of a surgery

CW: hospital trauma gore, panic attacks, sensory overload, self injury stims

***

“Ava!” Connor’s voice was barely audible over the chaos of the emergency department. It didn’t help that Ava was majorly overwhelmed, trying her hardest to focus on the task at hand so she didn’t have time to panic. It took a gentle nudge from April’s elbow meeting her ribcage before she was able to look up from the central line she had been doing.

“Go help him,” April ushered her out of the treatment room, “I can get a student to do this.”

Ava nodded, too much going on for her to be comfortable to respond. She slipped out of the crowded treatment room, pulling off the pair of gloves that had been making her increasingly uncomfortable. The ED was packed, chaos unfolding as Maggie tried to get the disaster protocol in place. A train accident had all hospitals in the area absolutely swamped with patients and Gaffney was getting the brunt of it due to its proximity. Ava and Connor had been called down to help with the traumas and assess any cases that would need surgical intervention. Connor was pleased; well, as pleased as a trauma surgeon is in such a morbid situation. He enjoyed the chaotic, fast-paced environment of the emergency department when it was experiencing a mass trauma. Ava, however, disliked that exact environment completely. She preferred the predictable, familiar OR where she was in charge and the only thing she had to worry about was finishing the procedure she could often do completely from muscle memory.

To say Ava was uncomfortable was an understatement. She hadn’t seen Sarah in a few hours, since the psychiatrist was jumping between the ED, the waiting room, and upstairs. Connor and her hadn’t been on great terms since their altercation in the CT lounge, especially after Ava had emerged from the room with makeup streaked down her red cheeks and other evident signs of a major panic attack. He didn’t apologize for making her meltdown and she didn’t ask for it; they just fell into some kind of silent cold war. No conversations had come up between them unless it involved work or faux-pleasantries to avoid confusing Latham. Since then, Ava had been increasingly more uncomfortable in Connor’s presence, so the last thing she wanted to do was go help him with a trauma. This meant she didn’t have a single person in her general vicinity to give her some semblance of security, which only worsened her anxiety.

“Finally,” Connor didn’t look up when Ava walked into Baghdad, which meant he missed the death glare she halfheartedly directed at him. He motioned for her to come closer, making her realize how much of a predicament this patient was in.

A large metal rebar was protruding from the upper chest of a teenage boy, whose clothing was bloodied and the rest of his body didn’t look much better. This was unfortunately something Ava had seen more than once since moving to Chicago. From the placement of the bar it looked like it would be a tricky surgery, though not one that Connor couldn’t do with the help of a resident. She wasn’t needed, not really, so why did he call her in here?

“Rebar to the anterior chest cavity, not through and through, pretty sure the bar snagged the left subclavian.”

“Where do you need me?” She tried her best to settle into her surgical mindset, ignoring the way the erratic beeping of the heart monitors was getting to her.

“I don’t think he can make it upstairs,” he was saying as he looked over the labs that Monique handed him, “You’ll need to go to the hybrid OR.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Connor,” Ava gently lifted the gauze packed around the bar to check the wound, “You don’t need me, not for this. I could be helping with the other surgical candidates.”

“You’re going to do this, Ava,” Connor looked at her for the first time, “I have other patients already prepped upstairs.”

Ava’s heart sank. Not only was he forcing her to operate in an unfamiliar OR, he wouldn’t even be there for it. Usually Ava hated sharing her surgeries, especially with Connor, but today was just not a day for that. She hated traumas, was uncharacteristically unsure of things like this, so the thought of doing it without a trauma surgery assist sounded like a bad idea.

“Connor, no.”

“Ava, you’ll be fine,” he was already taking off his gloves and heading to leave the room, “The team’s already prepping, just get the bar out and repair the artery.”

“Connor!” He was already halfway past the nurse’s station by the time she had tried to stop him. Ava was painfully aware of the amount of eyes on her, the staff around her looking to the surgeon for clarification. She tried to take a deep breath but her lungs felt like they were in a vice, panic slowly setting in. She shouldn’t be this nervous, she tried to reason with herself, it was just another surgery. Everything was too much though; this was too much change at once.

“Doctor Bekker?”

“Right, uh,” Ava blinked rapidly as she looked over at the nurse, “Get him to the hybrid OR then. I’ll go scrub.”

She could do this.

She had to.

Five minutes later, she was scrubbing in. She didn’t like this at all, the OR in the emergency department was so different. It was new, yes, and very nice but it wasn’t her ORs. The huge glass windows looking into the ED only worsened it for Ava. She felt like a changed animal being watched at a zoo, except she couldn’t even pace to make herself feel better. She was on display and could see the chaos outside too, it was too much.

“Ready, Doctor Bekker?” some resident whose name she suddenly forgot asked from beside her. The young woman didn’t like Ava very much, probably because she thought she got in her way of Connor, but Ava could not care less. Residents were the least of her worries, especially now.

“Uh, yeah. Give me a second.”

She left the scrub area, going to get her gown and leaving Ava in silence. She got distracted by staring out the window, eyes tracking Natalie as she ran across the ED when a code blue sounded over the speakers. Ava didn’t realize how hard she had been scrubbing her hands until she looked down and saw how red her skin had become. Her anxiety was getting the better of her, making her revert to old compulsions in an attempt to soothe herself. She hadn’t been so obsessive about cleaning since med school, but she found herself washing her hands for a second time because something just felt off.

By the time Ava nudged the door to the OR open with her hip, her adrenaline was so high she wanted to run. Somehow it felt like her heart was going to jump from her chest, as anatomically incorrect as that might be. She was focusing on deep breaths while the scrub nurse helped her into her gown, but when she held open the first glove Ava knew this would be a problem.

Nitrile gloves were a sensory nightmare when she was anxious, as ironic as that was. Yes she was a surgeon and yes surgical gloves and the consistent beeping of heart monitors could trigger sensory meltdowns. Ava didn’t know for sure why and she had spent years forcing herself to ignore the anxiety that ate away at her stomach whenever she felt those gloves touch her skin.

Today was different though.

The second she had both gloves on she wanted to scream, the feeling of the material tight against her hands more uncomfortable than ever. She couldn’t stop herself from immediately reaching to touch her collarbone, a self-soothing stim she had since she could remember, subsequently breaking her sterile field when her hand brushed her neck. Cursing under her breath, Ava apologized and explained to the staff that she would need to go rescrub.

She ran to the sinks without thought, ripping the gloves and gown off her body the second she was out of the operating area. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, heart rate probably above 160 if she had to guess. Everything was too much and even after tossing the offending gloves into the waste bin she felt like they were still there. The awful feeling of bugs crawling along her wrists and the powdery residue left behind from the nitrile made her want to gag.

Before she could stop herself, Ava clapped her hands over her ears. The yelling from the ED, the hum of the air conditioning, and the constant beeping of different machines was finally getting to her. The gloves had been her last straw though, bile rising to her throat at the thought of having to put them back on. Even when she scrubbed at her hands roughly with the harsh anti-microbial soap again she still felt them, the sensation making frustrated tears pop up without consent.

The next thing Ava knew she was on the floor. She couldn’t handle it anymore; everything was so much. She was crying, she knew it, but she couldn’t hear herself or anything else over the flood of thoughts that suddenly hit her. The rough texture of her scrubs was at the forefront of her mind, a constant reminder that she couldn’t exist without one thing touching her. Every tactile sensation was too much in that moment and a harsh sob left her throat.

All she could think about was what Connor said in the lounge that day. All of the intrusive, hateful thoughts that morphed themselves out of his words erupting in her head. Even though most of them weren’t ones Connor had actually said out loud, Ava’s anxiety took his anger poorly and had a hayday with the self-deprecation fuel.

All you do is get in the way, Ava.

Were you even thinking about the patient?

You’re so selfish.

This is so childish.

You’re not cut out to be a surgeon.

Ava was so far in her head she didn’t hear the nurses yelling, trying to get her attention. She didn’t hear Connor’s voice as he was asking her what the hell she was doing and what was wrong. All she could do was sob, short nails digging into her biceps with as much force as she could muster. She was so overwhelmed and everything was too much. She was hyperventilating, the room starting to spin, she was supposed to be doing a surgery. Why wasn’t she in surgery?

The next thing Ava knew she was waking up, disoriented because she didn’t remember falling asleep. It took her a few minutes of confused staring at the white ceiling before she realized she was in a patient room. Panic set in almost immediately, concern for the patient flooding her more than any concern for herself. She felt an immense wave of guilt; what had she done?

The rapid beeping of a heart monitor signaled her increasing tachycardia and that immediately caught someone’s attention. Sarah was there in seconds, hands landing cautiously on Ava’s cheeks to soothe her. Ava didn’t resist because she knew immediately that it was Sarah, relaxing into the touch but unable to make eye contact. She was still overwhelmed, despite the amount of sedatives undoubtedly circulating her system. The mental toll was just as bad as the physical and all she wanted to do was melt into Sarah’s arms and weep.

“Avey,” the pitying look that her girlfriend gave her sent guilt gnawing away at Ava’s stomach again, “Why did you push yourself this far?”

#hello it’s 2 am I barely proofread this 😌🌸#chicago med #ava bekker #sarah reese #reesker #connor rhodes #my aus #4 mg ativan #anxious!ava #nosdecember #mutuals #neworleansspecial #userglow #my-writing

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slinkinginshadows · 4 years

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Mine

Okay, this is gonna make very little sense if you haven’t read IZ issue 49, but I’m throwing it over here because I’m not putting it on main. I think Zi//b’s growth was seriously stunted by the Pak and he’s actually 17 or 18 now, not just for porn purposes but because it honestly makes everything about him more tragic.

Very quick rundown: Zim and Dib are rivals. Zim’s an alien whose brain is stored in a computer on his back. This version of Dib killed Zim and put that computer on his own head. It made him... not quite right, and after conquering and accidentally wiping his own Earth from existence he’s currently fooling a bunch of other Zims from alternate dimensions that he lured there in part of a plan to purge every universe in them multiverse of his species. (The Elites are 100 of his best fighters, they think he’s the ‘ultimate Zim’.) ‘Smeet’ is the alien word for baby.

Warnings: Mating heat, size difference, very brief mention of considered abortion, technically underage pregnancy, birth kink.

Wordcount: 2665

It was hot in here.

It was never hot in here. It was always perfectly regulated because he'd set up the system like that. It was hot in the Zim suit sometimes, but he only put that on when he needed to, and it was currently set up in the corner, standing in a salute with boots clicked together and synthetic flesh just a shade too shiny. (Not like any of the Zims would notice. Although they might, they could be smart. Or not. He'd see.)

He shrugged off his coat, hanging it up on the throne. Then hanging it on the arm of the throne. Then wondering when he'd started sitting in a puddle of sweat, and why it smelled like syrup. (Why was it faintly pink? It shouldn't be pink. Sweat wasn't pink. It was definitely the lighting.)

He pressed his legs together- he hadn't had to go to the bathroom in ages, the Pak regulating all his bodily functions to get maximum use from any food he consumed. (Whenever he did eat, which wasn't as often anymore. Irken tech was fascinating, he couldn't wait until the next Zim kicked the bucket and they handed the corpse off to dissect. Tearing apart each newly dead Zim's Pak helped him to tweak his own.)

"What is that?" Hopping off the throne, he began to pace, feeling the front of his pants before realizing it was absolutely soaked. "Fuck." He yanked his pants down, almost getting them tangled on his boots as they revealed his underwear was more pink than white, taffy-colored-and-scented ooze spreading from his... his... every time he looked at it, his brain nearly tore in half, screaming about the alien junk that had split his old genitals. It was more flexible and self-lubricating as well as just as sensitive, but it was also very, very not human.

Okay, he could handle this. Of course he could handle this, he'd conquered an entire planet, had squished his Zim like the bug he was. He could deal with the entrance below his new cock secreting sweet-smelling lubricant. He leaned against the wall, pulling back into the Pak for some kind of answer.

The one he got was.... not ideal.

"Are you kidding me?" He yanked at his hair spikes, dozens of tiny painful pinpricks washed out by the horrific realization that his body was about to become his worst enemy.

Heat. A rare condition, but one that apparently his Zim had suffered from. Luckily Dib had never been a mature irken when they were fighting, but the Pak considered his body one now, and... his eyes slowly dragged down to the slick between his legs.

___________

He had, at best, a day before he lost his mind entirely. Already, his brain's higher functions were beginning to shut down, considering he was even... well, considering this.

It had to be one of the Elites. The idea of having one of his army scoop up a rebel to be discarded after was tempting, but they needed to be perfect. If he had to do this, he would do it right, with the best Zim of the lot. Number Two was an obvious choice, but he was too perfect for the Virus plan. He could brainwash him afterwards, easy enough, but... he wasn't forceful enough. Something ached inside of him, and he just knew Number Two wouldn't fill it properly.

Cat Zim? Tempting, but be could be fussier than the others. Skater Zim? He hated his voice. Shark Zim had some bite to him, but he'd like to keep his head- if his Pak was destroyed, he'd lose his connection to his machines and to the plan. None of them were right, none of them were as good as his Zim.

Down the list, down the list, until- yes, that would do nicely.

___________

Number 100 had to bend as he practically crawled into the room, and Dib smirked from where he peeked out from behind the throne, saliva beginning to well up in his mouth at every over-toned muscle.

He might not be able to walk for a few days, but it would be worth it. Already, his mind was chewing itself up, burning and biting to be taken.

"Number One wanted Big Zim?"

A new recruit, he'd only crashed a week or two ago but had risen in the ranks like a shot. He was all brawn and no brains, and the way his shirt rippled with every breath... "Yes, he does." It was simple enough to lock down the chamber with a single button, a wall slamming down in front of the door and shields soundproofing the rest.

"Voice... different. Voice Dib!" 100 moved to smash down on the floor until his antennae perked up. "Hmm... Big Zim smells a nice thing..."

"That's me." He swayed his hips as he walked around the throne, and 100's eyes widened.

"Dib... Zim?" He scratched his head. "Big Zim doesn't understand."

"You don't need to. Pants off."

"Big Zim wears tight-"

"Now!" Dib barked out, and Big Zim ripped his pants off in a single motion, dropping the fabric to the side. Stars, he couldn't take much more of this. He'd balled up his coat to use as a pillow and spread his legs.

"You want Big Zim to- ooooh." A big grin crossed 100's face. The ground shook when he dropped to his knees, grabbing Dib and holding him like a human-sized stress ball.

Somehow, it was way hotter than it had any right to be. Still, he needed to be the one in control. "Fuck me. That's an order."

"Fuck?"

"Gah- like this!" Dib slid from 100's hands, sweet slick already dragged across his palm, before maneuvering himself over the tentacle. As he balanced on the beefy irken's thighs, the interlocking worm-like tendrils that covered his entrance slowly began to open up. "O-oh..." His skin was on fire, but his thighs were dunked in lava, every inch of him burning as he clung to 100's forearms. 100 thrust up, shoving the tendrils all the way out of the way and nearly impaling Dib on his cock.

Dib saw stars. His vision went white, and the back of his head started frantically buzzing as the Pak dealt with the sensory overload when 100 pulled back and thrust again. By the third one, Dib's knees were jelly and he was panting like a marathon runner, held up only by 100's arm that he'd wrapped around his waist.

Mate mate fuck reproduce breeding breed get bred he is Taller take it take it breed

His toes curled in his boots, and he gasped out "Harder!" 100 complied, and how. He certainly knew how to do what he was told, a good trait in someone Dib needed to use. Maybe he'd even keep this one as a toy, maybe maybe maybe-

Dib's shirt was soaked in pink before he even realized he'd come, overstimulated and blissed out on 100's pounding as he was. He had only seconds for his mind to begin to clear of heat before 100 came himself, filling the entrance with thick, sticky cum. Dib couldn't move, pinned between 100's arm and his chest, and he came for so long, he must be spilling back out because there was no way there was enough room inside of him. He squirmed, but 100 nuzzled against the top of his head.

"Good Dib-Zim, smelled nice, felt nice..."

Maybe it was the lingering heat. Maybe it was because he hadn't had contact with anyone since months before this place had turned into a void.

He curled against 100 and ordered him to serve as a bed for the next few hours, even as sticky as they both were. He was warm, especially in his middle, but the teeth gnawing his brain were gone, so he simply shed his shirt and tugged his coat back on. This was fine, humans needed a bit of physical contact now and then, and this would be wiped from 100's mind before he left. He'd dealt with the heat. Everything was under control.

_____________

This was impossible.

He clutched at his shirt. "Run the scan again!"

"Scanning, Number One." The computer beamed a light over him again. It was just a glitch with it. It had to be. There was no way- "There is a zygote inside of you, Number One."

Dib slumped back on the throne. He could- he could just get rid of it. That would be the easiest course- his body wasn't meant for this. Some of the parts were, clearly, but not all of them. He was human, human and still short because of the stupid Pak stunting his growth but capable of holding this new life because he was made more perfect from it.

But...

A hand rose to rub the side of his Pak.

He could make a new Zim. One as good as his old one, one that lit that spark. He'd be part Dib, and worthy enough, but he could use the brainwashing tech to mold him exactly how he wanted if he didn't fall in line. A perfect Zim, a perfect second in command.

His fingers hooked under the hem of his shirt and he pulled it upwards, staring at his stomach. Still flat. Still looking human.

Not for long.

He needed to start giving his announcements over the intercom.

______________

It grew like a weed. Stifling his insides, smothering his organs as it shoved everything out of the way to have space. Surely a Zim, through and through. He ordered that seats be torn out of the crashed Voots and piled at the door. He paced. Shoving the seats together, he curled up on them, fingers digging into the soft material as his body worked with and without him to build up the hybrid.

He craved foods that would definitely kill him and drooled over engine oil when he was fixing up one of the fleet's Voots. It was halfway to his lips before he chucked it away, spilling some of the precious material but not caring because why did he want to drink engine oil. Human and irken signals crossed, human body unsure how to handle the parasite while the irken running through his veins coaxed heat from elsewhere, leaving him shivering while his belly burned.

His head hurt. The wires of the Pak dug into his brain heated up at random times, and it felt like someone had jabbed a hot poker directly into his occipital lobe, and then another one right next to it.

Pain was nothing. Pain was just his body trying to tell him he couldn't do this.

He couldn't do this.

Yes, he could.

His body was going to realize it wasn't meant for this and kill it.

His body was the perfect vessel, knowing exactly what it needed.

If he left his hand on his stomach for too long, his throat seized like he was going to throw up.

Thank every star in the multiversal sky that he'd installed that soundproofing, because if he had to hear the Elites training and their Zim-ish voices day in and day out he was going to strangle one of them.

Or kiss one of them, either-or, because listening for too long made his stomach twist with white-hot want and listening only to his own heartbeat was worse.

It was probably just because the other father was a Zim too. Base instinct, to want the mate. They weren't his mate, but this smeet-child was his. His alone. Big Zim had been properly brainwashed and sent on his way. This was a wrench in the works but one Dib could work with, yes, a wrench he could twist to give him something he hadn't expected but that worked perfectly.

His stomach swelled, and he realized he couldn't fit in the Zim-suit anymore. He'd tailored it to himself before and... well, he wasn't the him he was before now. No matter, he didn't need it. They thought he was their god, the perfect Zim.

He'd had one, so he could play the part the same as always, just from behind a screen.

It started kicking after two months. The computer said gestation was halfway complete. He'd started having food delivered to his chambers because he was getting dizzy if he didn't eat.

It jutted from below his ribs, too round, like a curled dragon inside his belly ready to tear his skin on its way to freedom. It was strong. Good, good, it needed to be strong. It would be his to keep once he burned through Zims, helping to cleanse the universe.

A wall wasn't enough. He needed an entire planet between himself and the others, because every cell in his body screamed for closeness to the irkens in the other room. He slammed the fire buttons, but seeing them burnt through the cameras only made him nauseous instead of amused the way he'd always been before.

The brainwashing tech wasn't ready for a mass scale yet. He couldn't let them see. If he let one in to touch and hold and be with, that would be weak. He dug his nails into his palms and bit his lip and rocked himself on the Voot seats that still smelled of Zim.

He assembled a Pak from the extras, from the corpses of former Zims, life from death from life. He paced until pacing for more than a minute made his swelling ankles sore, and kicked his bare feet around instead once the boots felt too stifling and the socks were too sweaty. Lounging shirtless was nice for about five minutes until having to look at his own body was more of a punishment than a joy.

An irken hybrid. Creation from his own body, life from nothing. The night before it was born, sharp-tipped fingers ran up the squirming length of his cock as he rubbed it against his stomach, jutting out the way it was. He was something entirely new, and making something even newer than that. Too bad everyone who used to laugh at him was turned to atoms, they wouldn't be laughing now. No one would be laughing. He was doing something great.

The Pak pulsed him awake and he groaned, before his stomach flipped and he groaned for an entirely different reason.

Time was a lie, in the void. Even so, the cramps took hours upon hours to turn into anything, for liquid to gush as he desperately tried to coax the tendrils open and started making his legs twitchy and his cheeks hot in the process.

As the Pak's painkillers stalled, he began to squeeze his length, the entrance relaxing as more slick poured from it and movement inched downwards. His heels dug into the plush cushion of the nest, and his throat let out a whine as his palm slid up and down the cock. Every urge to push, he gave another stroke.

"Mine..." he choked out as it curled around his fingers, already dripping precum as the weight in his stomach dropped further.

It could have been days before the head reached his entrance for all he knew, edging himself by slowing down so he wouldn't lose control, but when it pressed against the lips, he dug his nail into one of the ridges and cried out, giving the hardest push yet.

His free hand dug into the cushion as he came, and the head popped through with a rush of pain and pleasure mixed into one. He peeled his shirt off, chucking it away to finish the job, and after another time that could have been ten minutes and could have been two hours, he was clicking the Pak into place on the smeet's back.

It had chocolate-brown eyes and when it opened them and gave a gummy smile, he realized that he had absolutely no idea what to do now.

#shadow writes stuff #mpreg #birth kink #lemon #iz/#mpreg fic

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therealjammy · 7 years

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Shadows Glancing

An old, revised-ish story about Shaw’s freedom from captivity I felt like sharing for the Tumblr crowd.

Sameen Shaw never really considered herself a literary person, even when she was in high school and forced to read books for class, or in college and med school, staying up late studying medical textbooks. When she was little her father used to read to her, stories from Americans and Iranians and Greeks, mainly classic works or stories for children. But what came to mind when she found herself suddenly free and wandering back to New York with a broken mind and equally as broken body was Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. Two people doomed to live in a cave watch the shadows on the wall that dance about in sunlight or firelight so that they may learn about the outside world, but it doesn’t tell them much. They can hear the sounds and imagine the actions but they don’t have meaning for it because they can’t see any of it. One of them escapes one night and sees the outside world for the first time. It’s not just shadows; it’s light and sharp movement and it's all too much but it’s beautiful. He’s gone for two days and comes back to tell his friend what he witnessed, but the friend is overwhelmed with all this information and finds every word quite hard to believe. Nobody was telling Shaw about the outside world; she was seeing it all for herself, and it felt like too much. Every sound was an unpleasant vibration in her ears; every scent sent her stomach reeling. Her footsteps seemed to echo. The curse of captivity. You get used to one world.

Shaw pulled the hood up on her smelly hoodie to hide her face from cameras. It didn’t do well to protect herself from the rain; her hair was already wet and beginning to frizz. She stuck her hand in her jeans pocket, feeling for the wad of cash she’d stolen from some rich man’s wallet when he wasn’t looking. There was enough for food and board and a one-way plane ticket to JFK.

She checked into a hotel that was right on top of a baguette shop, El Brilliante. The concierge handed over a key with 214 engraved on a fat piece of metal attached to the ring. Shaw thanked him and headed there first thing. She was thorough in her search for bugs and cameras, coming up with nothing. She opened the curtains and found two French doors leading to a small balcony. The view was of the sidewalk below and outdoor seating for El Brilliante, the silver chairs and tables already illuminated by the restaurant’s red, blue, and yellow neon sign. It sparked a memory of sitting in Times Square with Root one long year ago, waiting on a number who wasn’t showing up on time. They sat outside an office building, sipping Starbucks coffees, neon and LED lights illuminating Root’s face at different angles, painting her in a strange, artificial light that still made her look like a walking dream. How calm things seemed then, Shaw thought, turning away from the balcony and back to the door, with her and Root basking in each other’s company, looking, to outsiders, like two friends or lovers meeting after work to enjoy the cool summer evening.

Shaw left her key with the concierge while she went out clothes shopping. She purchased plain shirts, pants, and underwear at a convenience store and bought a small overnight bag at a luggage store. She carried her bags with her into the baguette shop on the ground floor of the hotel and got dinner: a large cheese baguette and a bottle of water. The concierge gave her her key back and she settled onto the thin bed to enjoy her first meal as a free woman.

[…]

Sometimes beds reminded her of the cot she was confined to, and so, when she was back in New York, Shaw slept in hotel bathtubs. She’d get up in the middle of the night, take her pillow and the extra blanket with her, and curl up inside the rough-bottomed plastic or porcelain, sung to sleep by standard-issue soap and bleach. She would wake up with a crick in her neck the next morning but she felt it was well worth it. Other nights she was reminded of the early days with Root, teaming up because that was what the Machine wanted, sleeping in the tub because the thought of sharing a bed with her made Shaw want to crawl out of her own skin. Or bite Root on the neck and slip her hand into Root’s pants to see if that would shut her up. She would think of those days and then of more recent ones, when she allowed Root to stay the night and the taller woman would end up holding her.

How lovely that embrace seemed now. It would be filled with warmth and the occasional soft kiss, with sweet nothings whispered into the back of her neck. Shaw didn’t escape to be held but she found herself longing for Root’s arms.

“What’re you doing in here, sweetie?” she’d whisper, standing in the bathroom doorway, the lights still off except for the one above the shower/tub, what lovebirds called the romantic light.

“Old comforts,” Shaw would reply.

Root would come over, climb into the space with her, and they would be squished together, Root folding herself behind her, throwing an arm over Shaw’s waist.

“Did you look for me, Root?” Shaw wondered. Her eyes were drifting closed. The blue and yellow lights danced in the bathroom. “Are you still looking?”

[…]

While her clothes tumbled and spun in the guest laundry room down the hall, Shaw washed herself of blood. She scrubbed her body with lavender-scented soap and scratched her scalp to get the red stuff from her hair. The water was pink and then it was white. Another operative down the drain, and still so many to go. It was a hobby now, reminiscent of how she’d tracked down Root in the beginning, except the difference was she shot these operatives in center mass and not the shoulder. She was doing what she’d told herself she would do when lying on the floor of the NYSE, slowly bleeding out. I will take you down, and I’ll do it one by one if I have to. She kept her promises.

She wrapped herself in the standard-issue bathrobe, towel dried and brushed her hair, and went to fetch her laundry from the dryer.

She rewarded her hard work of the day with single malt scotch from an expensive bar in Brooklyn. It burned going down and didn’t taste like the stuff Greer had sometimes brought on their outings together. And in simulations, scotch never tasted right, even when the label was correct.

“Glad your place has scotch.”

“Maybe I’m trying to change your mind about living alone.”

Shaw had liked living alone, once. She cherished her time by herself because it gave her a chance to recharge and shrug off the annoyances of the day with takeout, beer, and a football game. She could think of punching or kissing Root in private, without fear of Root’s knowing smiles that would, in turn, cause Shaw’s ears to turn red. But Samaritan had recoded her, scrambled everything; being alone was like experiencing sensory overload. Everything made her twitch. Her own thoughts felt like scrambled voices amid static on a tape where the volume was turned up to 11. They asked what if and said they’re tracking you, they’re still looking for you, they could be right outside your fucking door. Sleeping was hard and necessary but the necessary was filled with vivid dreams. And she always found herself thinking of Root while she was curled up on the cold, sweat-soaked sheets. Thinking of her smell, her soft voice, the way she always held Shaw so gently. A woman who was calculated and cryptic in the outside world turned into the gentlest lover inside the bubble of the bedroom.

“Hey,” Shaw said to the bartender. He flocked over. “Mind if I ask for a fruit cocktail?”

“Not at all.”

“On the rocks, with an orange slice on the rim.”

“Got it,” he said, and as he made it he commented to her, “I didn’t really take you for the cocktail type.”

“I’m not,” Shaw said. He didn’t delve into the matter further. Obviously the guy knew things about personal space; Shaw would tip him big for that.

The toothpaste didn’t hide the leftover fruity taste of the cocktail. In Shaw’s hazy, sleep-addled state, it was like Root had come back from a late-night mission and kissed her in greeting. She wouldn’t mind that now. It would be nice to kiss Root, to see her after all these months, but if Shaw was being honest with herself, she had no idea where Root was. She could be anywhere in the world. Maybe on a plane to somewhere, or riding the Greyhound Train back to New York. Had they been together now, Root would walk in during the early hours of the morning, red-eyed and tired but happy to see her. She’d undress, brush her hair and her teeth and then climb into bed in her underwear, lying on her stomach, arms wrapped around her head.

“Rough day?” Shaw would ask.

“Long day,” Root would reply sleepily. She’d sigh when Shaw kissed between her shoulder blades. “We can play doctor and patient in the morning, I promise…”

Lights and movements bled through the hotel’s curtains. They were blurred, since sleep was beginning to overtake her. Shaw pulled the covers higher until they covered her shoulders. She burrowed into her pillow, imagining it was Root’s shoulder, or her chest.

Someday, she thought, they would find each other. Shaw would explain the things she saw in the world of Samaritan’s elaborate, ruthless tortures. Root would tell her everything that happened in Shaw’s absence. They would find each other at the subway, meet Finch and John and Lionel, and they would plan. And when it was all over, when Samaritan’s rule felt like a distant past, maybe she and Root could talk about someday.

#root x shaw #fan fiction

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