@rootcaused / root.
( the penthouse is modest in the loosest sense of the word ––––– shaw had given her free license to choose what she wanted, whether it was a high rise in midtown or a condo on the upper east side or a townhouse in brooklyn, and most of them get the swipe left until they find the penthouse. it’s closer to the loft than root would like but she knows the three story thing doesn’t exactly suit shaw; spacious without being EMPTY, far enough above the city to keep them out of the noise but close enough that the balcony doesn’t feel wasted, and a view to die for. it’s perfect.
or, at least, root thinks so. shaw mostly just stands in the living room and prods at theexpensive looking furniture while root zips from room to room with the realtor. do whatever you want, root. they buy it on the spot. )
but now they live here. three weeks of adjustments and coming and going and the occasional disagreement (fight) about what goes where; BELOW, somebody honks a horn and yells out their driver window. root watches the hustle of the night quietly and doesn’t realise she’s not alone until sameen’s voice travels by on the cool october breeze.
“ you know all my secrets. “ root says it with a smile and leans further into her arms, enjoying the way time passes below them; do any of them have even the slightest clue what has passed them by? what almost came to be? the pain and fear and fighting, the constant running, a god silently on their side? sameen stands next to her, straight backed rather than slouched and nudges her. come on.
“ ––––– i’m a natural blonde. “ she laughs a little, conspiratorial. “ when i was a kid, i had this – awful dirty blonde hair. i hated it. my mom used to say it looked like dishwater. so i started dying it when i was sixteen and never really stopped until. y’know. “
( a bullet, a three month coma and a kidney removal changes your priorities. )
it takes a change like this for shaw to realise just how little she owns, let alone how little she’s attached to the space she’s in -- the bed’s comfortable enough. big enough for the both of them ( and shaw’s adamant about her own space -- until she’s tired enough. then root’s colder than she is and shaw takes advantage of that when she curls around her side and presses a hand against her lower stomach. )
she’s glad she left root to sort it -- less so when there are boxes upon boxes of decorative shit to unload because she can’t possibly do without a purple shag rug and a lava lamp on each side of the bed -- but she’s glad nonetheless. especially when they drag two chairs out ( shaw’d happily sit against the concrete, but root tells her off every time she even considers it ) onto the balcony and stare out at the city. it’s big. too big to really comprehend what they’d stopped, and what root gained from stopping a complete technological armageddon ( another few bullet wounds, collapsed veins and a tolerance for sedatives ).
it comes from nowhere -- tell me a secret. it comes from when root tells her she stays out of her business -- the machine doesn’t tell her about shaw because she doesn’t ask. ( i don’t peek. ) but she’s takes a swig from the wine bottle and passes it back over when she does. they’re standing now -- root wants to appreciate the quiet and the lights, and shaw thinks it’s stupid, but follows her out anyway.
“ your mom’s wrong. ” and a bitch, she thinks, but holds it between her teeth -- not only does it have no weight in the conversation, but shaw knows it’s a step too far into bounds she’s never been. not about to start.
“ you should keep it. ” ( it’s a silent it’s nice. different, but nice. )