Chapter Text
The first time it happens is a write-off; it's just an accident, because Root's not even supposed to be around when Shaw stumbles backwards into their room. Not at 3am, when she's swinging a bottle of Jack in one hand and a drunken frat boy in the other.
Her roommate has been a mystery since day one; she's always gone or going, a sweet smile and a wave that flutters by as Shaw kicks her boots off in the doorway. Her side of the room is neat and clean, minimalist to the point of emptiness.
Three weeks into the semester, Shaw wonders if this was even a shared room to begin with. Maybe, she thinks, someone died in here, and what she's seeing is a lingering spirit that won't stop meeting her at the door.
Apparently, that's not the case.
So it's 3am and she's teetering on the edge of a really nice buzz, and there's a guy on her arm who's sure to leave before the sweat dries on her comforter. He doesn't ask for her name, and she doesn't bother turning the lights on before pushing him down and stripping while he reaches for her blindly in the dark.
Her clothes form an uncoordinated pile on the floor, the bottle quickly left abandoned on a wobbly stack of textbooks at the foot of her bed. If there's a scuffle of sheets being thrown back on the other side of the room, she sure as hell doesn't notice it, because this guy has solid abs and his mouth tastes like salt and lime.
And, of course, it's only when she's got him pinned to the bed, her hand pumping his dick beneath the confines of his boxers, that a lamp flickers on and Shaw's mysterious poltergeist of a roommate clears her throat.
"If you're going to do that in here, I'd really prefer you pick someone a little nicer to look at."
-
Her name is Root, and she's a monumental pain in the ass.
She's not messy, doesn't clog the shower drain with her hair or leave mouldy leftovers in the fridge, but there's just something so naturally invasive about her.
Maybe it's because she got a free floor show that night with the frat boy, and Shaw's bare ass has left too vivid an impression in her memory, but from that point on, Root's coming-and-goings meet a steep decrease in the latter.
Shaw will return from afternoon classes to find Root sitting on her bed, laptop balanced comfortably on her bare legs as she tap-tap-taps at the keys, and it'll continue on long into the night until Shaw eventually flatlines into a deep sleep or levels a book at her head.
The strange old habits are still prevalent though. Sometimes, when she's really struggling to doze off, Shaw will hear the door click shut and roll around to find Root long gone with the laptop in tow. On those nights, Shaw eventually realises, Root doesn't come back until morning.
Which leads right into the second time it happens.
She's sober and it's barely midnight, but there's a hot girl in uniform following her back from a Halloween party. She wants to be clear-headed for this one, present enough to enjoy getting handcuffed to the bedpost by an officer of the law (well, School of Law).
The hard plastic digs into her wrists and there's a woman in blue yanking her pants down to her ankles, but Shaw still casts a furtive glance at the other bed, like she's expecting the bedsheets to rise up into some kind of ghostly apparition.
(The kind that stares at her while she's pretending not to notice; the kind that steals her milk out of the fridge, and is probably drinking it straight from the carton because the line's receding and they're all out of reusable kitchen equipment.)
But the lights are on and there's nobody else in the room.
Shaw lets herself fall into it, the good feeling that comes with having an attractive stranger on top of her, toned thighs bracketing her stomach. The lady officer makes a throwaway comment about bad behaviour, and suddenly the door swings open and there's a poorly concealed huff of laughter from the hallway.
Shaw slams her head back into the pillow, a frustrated groan bubbling up in her throat as Root strolls into the room. She takes up her usual spot, fishing the laptop out of its case and propping it open like Shaw's not chained down for sexual reasons just a few feet away.
"Just pretend I'm not here." She waves a hand at them dismissively, eyes glued to the screen.
Suffice to say, Shaw doesn't get the orgasm she was after.
She does, however, spend a fair amount of time clawing her hands out of the handcuffs when her partner for the night sprints off in embarrassment, key still tucked away in her front pocket.
"Your timing sucks," Shaw mutters when the cuffs finally give way. She stretches her arms high above her head, not caring that she's still half-naked and forking out yet another excuse for Root to be gawky and unbearable.
But Root just hums in agreement, hardly lifting her eyes from the machine in her lap, and Shaw feels her jaw twitch with irritation that has no business being there.
"I see your taste is improving," Root says when Shaw's heading for the bathroom minutes later, hands rubbing at the raw skin around her wrists without really paying attention.
There's a smirk dimpling at Root's cheeks which is still present when Shaw returns, reaching for the main light switch as she passes.
"Goodnight, Sameen," she hears from somewhere in the dark, and she refuses to say it back.
-
What Shaw learns about Root in the weeks that follow, besides the fact that she's a shameless flirt who leaves brightly coloured sticky notes around the room when she borrows Shaw's stuff without asking, is this:
Root will never, under any circumstances, be straightforward about what she wants. At least not where Shaw is concerned.
Because if she had walked into that room one day, stripped herself down and said "Shaw, I want you to fuck me right now," everything that follows from here would be superfluous.
Instead, Shaw finds herself tossing and turning into consciousness before the sun comes up. She's an early riser as it is, but this time it still takes a minute for her to adjust to the rude awakening, and to the soft little gasps that manage to drag her from the sweet abyss.
Root's sex life is something she's never really been exposed to. Who she fucks, if she fucks - it's not an issue. The only window Shaw gets into that particular box is when Root's making sly little non-passes at her from across the room.
But here, as Shaw quietly rolls onto her side and lets her eyes become accustomed to the darkness, she gets her first glimpse between the shutters.
There's a naked woman tied to Root's bed.
Does she know this woman? Maybe. There are a lot of slim brunettes wandering around the campus on any given day.
Whoever she is, it's kind of hard to get a good look at her when her arms are thrown up above her head, knotted at the wrist by a leather belt that loops around the thin, wooden headboard. Her bicep is covering half her face, but Shaw can see that there's a scarf around her eyes too.
Knelt between the woman's spread legs, fully dressed and leaning back contentedly on her haunches, is Root.
She's just sitting there with her head tilted forward, and Shaw can only see the tip of her nose peeking out from behind that curtain of long hair, but her hand is stroking along the woman's thigh in plain view.
Root tenses her fingers, squeezing pale skin hard against her palm before dipping out of sight, and suddenly the body underneath her arches violently off the bed and the soft moans build into a long crescendo.
This isn't a secret hook-up under cover of darkness, Shaw realises; it's not bringing someone home to a room you presumed would be empty, or even a weak attempt at getting yourself off without waking up the oblivious roommate.
This is Root finally playing her hand. Literally.
She's making it look so casual though, like she's completely unaffected by the way she's working her partner over. Root makes sex look like a science project, and every flick of her wrist is a calculated move to keep the variables in check.
Shaw closes her thighs together under the sheets and blinks as little as she can.
It's all a game to Root, an experiment for someone else's benefit. Shaw's benefit, maybe.
And, as if to prove the point, Root turns her head and tilts it back, and her eyes cut into Shaw's like she's a special guest arriving half an hour late to her own party. Root smiles, bright and dangerous, baring her teeth in the dark like a predator.
Shaw looks and looks, and Root's hand movements grow fervent as she fucks this person, this stranger, who has no idea what she's in the middle of. Shaw can hear, with perfect clarity, the sound of Root's fingers thrusting into slick heat, despite the heavy breaths and gentle whimpers that come with every touch.
She lets her own hand slip down, tucks it between her thighs and leaves it there because she won't give Root the satisfaction of knowing she pushed her this far.
Root's still watching her, and Shaw scowls as fiercely as she's able, to no effect. She opens her mouth and inhales, a sharp comment already clear in her mind, because that's what you're supposed to do when someone pulls this kind of shit; you put a stop to it because it's fucking weird.
But as soon as her tongue lifts to form the first syllable, Root's moving her free hand and pressing an index finger to her lips.
It's a mocking gesture, a joke, like she has any right to tell Shaw to keep quiet when the room down the hall can probably hear her girlfriend doing vocal warm-ups into the pillow.
And the most annoying part is that Shaw can't bring herself to say a word about it. She just watches it happen, fingers twitching between her legs, and the sheets must get crumpled in the process because Root's eyes slink away from her face and her smile only grows.
The woman on the bed wails into the inside of her elbow.
Shaw curls her fingers and settles against the heel of her palm.
Root fucks one, and watches the other.
-
Two days later, Shaw goes to a bar with some friends and brings home this pasty-looking British guy in a suit. He's tall and conceited, and his voice grinds on her nerves, so she leads him back to their room and rides him for a good twenty minutes while Root doesn't even pretend to be sleeping.
From here, they fall into something like a routine.
Shaw likes to switch things up in the bedroom; men and women, top and bottom. But Root has a very specific set of criteria. This becomes readily apparent after the third woman she brings home flicks her long, brown hair over one shoulder and slinks out of their room as the sun comes up, the skin around her ankles red-raw and visible as she picks her heels up on the way out.
They don't talk about it during the day, not about that first time and not about any time that follows.
Root makes comments every once in a while that edge the line they've marked so carefully. Just a teasing quip about Shaw's flexibility while she's stretching for her morning run, or a perverse twist on whatever vitriol Shaw spits at her when she's being a nuisance.
And sometimes she'll pause at the bathroom door after needlessly declaring her intention to use the shower, a coy little smile painted across her face as she tips her head towards Shaw. And waits, and waits, and finally goes.
In retaliation, Shaw does push-ups in her underwear, showers with the door open, eats sloppy food in their room and wipes her hands on Root's bedsheets, but only when she knows they've just been cleaned.
Shaw figures out that Root likes it best when she's tied down, and so she makes a point to dominate more frequently just to mess with her. Not always, of course, because Shaw's well aware of her own sexual preferences, and she'll surrender the reins if there are capable hands around to take hold.
And, in all honesty, the look on Root's face when she gives it up is enough to get her going, even when her pick of the week can't tell her clit from her bellybutton.
Meanwhile, Root's over there tying knot after knot like she'd rather take a bullet than let someone climb on top of her. Which, whatever, it's her business, but Shaw thinks she wouldn't mind seeing someone wipe that smug look off her face every now and then. Even when she gets off, there's this expression like she's claiming a trophy at someone else's expense.
There's always been a thrill to that part of it, Root's pageantry, and in pretending that this isn't the fucked up perversion that it is. Even when every person in the room can count to two and knows the numbers don't add up, there's never been a question of wrong or right from any party involved.
Shaw still pretends for her own self interest, lying on her side like she can shut her eyes at any moment and remove herself from the situation. Root, however, has long since dropped any facade of disinterest. Sometimes she'll sit with her back to the wall, and watch so shamelessly that Shaw's partner takes an interest.
(Only once do they ask her to join in. Root grins and shakes her head, hands clasped together over her knees as she looks at Shaw, and says, "I'm not interested in sharing.")
This goes on, in its own twisted but altogether harmless way, for the better part of a year.
And then some busybody decides to stick their nose in.
-
"Don't you have a roommate?" asks John Reese, proprietor of the nose in question.
They're sitting face-to-face in a booth, tucked away in the corner of the bar and waiting for Harold to return with their next round of drinks. Somehow, John decides that now is the best time to have this conversation, even though she and Root have been fucking everyone but each other for months.
Shaw sets her beer down on the table and smirks at him.
"Why, you looking to get set up?"
He frowns at her, brow wrinkling. "You know I have a girlfriend."
"Good thing, too. You're not really her type."
"Anyway," John leans forward in his seat like he's about to make a very important point, "where does she go when you bring these one-night stands back there?"
She doesn't go anywhere. Shaw bites her tongue and almost holds down the grin that creeps up onto her face. "I don't ask," she says instead.
John takes one look at her expression and goes from mildly inquisitive to outright suspicious.
"Does she know?"
"Oh, she knows." Shaw smirks into the lip of her bottle, eyeing an attractive blonde woman at the other end of the bar.
"And she's fine with it?"
His tone suggests that she shouldn't be, but Shaw can't imagine why. It's not like she's fucking in Root's bed, or kicking her out of the room. They have an understanding, her and Root, a mutual respect for each other's needs. A mutual... appreciation.
Shaw holds onto that thought for the span of two seconds before brushing past it and taking another swig of her drink. "Root has her own fun."
There's obviously another question simmering below the surface of John's latent respect for her privacy, but Harold's tray hits the table before he can go fishing for it. John shuffles further into the booth instead, and the conversation swerves into a lane not paved with Shaw's sexual history.
But she still thinks about it. Later, mostly, when John's already agreed to walk Harold back to his room, and Shaw's eyes lock down on the same blonde from earlier, nursing a fruity-looking cocktail at the bar.
She wonders what Root is doing, wonders if she's in bed, snoring softly, or pulling another one of her all-night disappearing acts. Maybe she's in a place much like this one, throwing seductive gazes at someone over the rim of her glass like this woman at the bar is doing to her.
The blonde smiles at her when she catches her eye, winking, and all Shaw can think about is how Root winks with both her eyes and smiles like a skulking crocodile.
Is this similar to how she seduces her women, Shaw wonders, and thinks about brown hair in place of vibrant yellow.
(Thinks, and imagines: Root crossing her legs provocatively, one hand playing at the strap of her dress. Root sliding off the chair and approaching her at the booth, offering to buy her a drink that she has no taste for.
Root looming over her in the dark, naked and panting and just out of reach.)
She goes home with the blonde.