shoot + 13
13. things you said at the kitchen table
“Root, what the hell?” Shaw asked, blinking at the scene in front of her. It’d been too long of a day stuck behind the makeup counter; she’d had more than her fill of interaction for one day, and all she wanted was to eat, have a beer, and sleep till something-number, a robbery opportunity, or retail hell-inevitably came up.
But there was Root, lying on the kitchen table Shaw rarely used; it had come with her cover’s apartment, and there was no sense in getting rid of it either. The weapons that were previously stored on said table were on the ground, and Shaw let out an exasperated sigh and stalked forward. She was able to quickly deduce what had happened; the red stain blooming across Root’s thigh through the fabric of her jeans spoke for itself. Shaw reached out to check Root’s pulse with two fingers to her neck; her pulse was weak but not dangerously so, Shaw concluded. It wouldn’t stay that way for long, however, not with Root bleeding all over like this if she’d already passed out.
“Dammit Root,” Shaw muttered, and then went off for the medical supplies.
Shaw got to work, and got lost in it fairly fast. It was familiar, this routine; Root was the most likely of all of them to become Swiss cheese (somehow, she managed to get more injuries than Reese, though only just). She peeled Root’s pants away from the wound as carefully as she could, beginning to assess the damage and clean. It seemed Root had gotten lucky; the bullet had just missed the artery by a fraction. Shaw didn’t want to dwell on the fact that had the bullet been any closer to the artery than it was, Root probably would be dead on her kitchen table-if she would’ve even made it that far. Shaw frowned a little, brows furrowed in concentration as she began the almost monotonous task of removing the bullet, sterilizing the injury, and stitching it up. When she was done, she dressed the bandage, and looked at Root.
She was still out, and Shaw didn’t particularly like the pallor of her skin, so she went to get what was necessary to start a transfusion, and a saline drip too for good measure. This wasn’t exactly an injury that Root could get up from fast, but Shaw suspected that wouldn’t stop her. Shaw was considering the ways of moving Root to her bed; she might not use the kitchen table much, but Root was far too long for its square design. She wasn’t going to put her on the couch and risk Root falling off it and popping her stitches-Root tended to flail in her sleep. Shaw pushed aside the thoughts of how and where to move Root in favor of setting up an IV.
Once she was satisfied that Root would probably not die on her and she’d washed up, Shaw set about to preparing dinner. She made herself a sandwich, sitting on the kitchen counter to eat it where she could keep an eye on Root. The last thing Shaw needed was for her to wake up and try to move on her own. Root would have plenty of time to do that when she inevitably snuck off to God knows where to God knows what for the Machine, far too soon for her injuries to allow. Shaw had the sneaking suspicion that was more on Root’s part than the Machine’s; Root was pretty reckless, moreso these days than ever, with the Machine mostly silent.
“Sameen?” Root’s voice was wary and small from being out so long, but Shaw turned away from the plate she had just put in the sink to her.
“Don’t,” Shaw said firmly as she pushed none too gently on Root’s left shoulder-the one without the IV still in it-as Root attempted to sit up. Root winced, and allowed Shaw to manhandle her. A small smile spread across Root’s face, and Shaw braced herself for the innuendo.
“You know how much I love it when you play doctor, Sameen,” Root murmured in what Shaw supposed was her half-assed attempt at seduction post almost bleeding out from a gunshot to the thigh, “And that I really love it when you get all handsy with me. But I really really love it when you manage both at the same time. What more could a gal ask for?”
Shaw rolled her eyes, “I haven’t even given you pain medication yet and you’re already acting like you’re high.”
Root’s smirk turned into a grimace as she finally registered the pain, and Shaw huffed as she told her, “Stay where you are.”
Root nodded meekly while Shaw went to get her pain medication; she grabbed some antibiotics from her pharmaceutical stash too, and brought them into the kitchen. Shaw quickly filled a glass of water and made a second sandwich; Root would be in worse pain if she didn’t eat with these medicines. (Shaw knew, she’d witnessed it too many times to count when she hadn’t been the one to stitch Root up afterwards.)
“Eat,” Shaw pushed the sandwich at Root, who had strained herself into an upright position Shaw knew couldn’t be comfortable, but nothing about bleeding out on a kitchen table was exactly comfortable.
For her part, Root did as she was told, eerily quiet about the whole thing. She didn’t protest or make any ridiculous innuendos when Shaw handed her the pills; Root tipped them back and downed them with the full glass of water without Shaw having to ask. Shaw put Root’s dishes in the sink, and moved to get rid of the IV, now that the transfusion and drip were both done.
“You’re staying here tonight,” Root’s head turned at Shaw’s calm declaration, “It almost nicked your artery, and while you and I both know you won’t rest as long as your injury demands, humor me tonight.”
Root nodded slowly, “Okay.”
Shaw nodded back, repeated, “Okay.”
Root was still quiet when Shaw helped her off the table, but it didn’t sit so uncomfortably with Shaw anymore. Shaw spared one glance at the abandoned kitchen table on their way to her bedroom, to catalog how much work she’d need to do to make it not look like a crime scene. But that could wait; for now, she had the next twelve hours to make sure Root stayed still, give or take a few.