She fell, fell, fell. She had been falling for quite some time now. But if she finally realized she had touch rock bottom and couldn’t back away from her feelings anymore, physically she never noticed her body touching ground.
It was ironic, really, how it had taken her thousand looks in those light brown eyes to realize she had been falling all this time but with one look down a gun barrel, she knew she would never have to get up again.
Feelings were complicated for Shaw, dying wasn’t.
But maybe her death was complicated for someone else. Root, who dived; dived in her love for her, dived in a storm of bullets. But for what? She was dead.
The pain in her head told her that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t all that dead. But again she fell, the darkness invading all her senses.
When she woke up again, she stayed awake for almost ten months. Always conscious that she couldn’t afford to fall again or she would make everybody fall with her. And Root, Root who had loved to fall for her, would fall six feet beneath because of her. Shaw hated this thought so she refused to let anything happen.
It took her almost ten months to get up, against torture and pain. Her plan was ready and she would make Samaritan crumple down on itself. It crumpled down, at least in South Africa. Her plane landed in New York two days later.
She was ready.
She fell in Root’s arms, in the comfort of the subway, in the embrace. She was exhausted, she was ready.
Together, they made Samaritan eat the ground.
Together, falling felt right.