Axis 2 personality disorder

Root was right; Shaw liked it rough. But when they were done with rough, when they fell to the mattress, sheets stripped away from the frame in the aftermath, covered in sweat, then Root reached gently for Shaw, touched each of her scars, fingertips and lips gentle on Shaw's back and torso. When Root made love to her tenderly, Shaw wept afterwards, the tears falling from Root's face mingling with Shaw's on her cheeks. Root thinks Shaw likes this too, even if she'd never admit it. If she didn't like it, she'd straight up leave, or pin Root to the mattress beneath her, distract her with something more vigorous. But Shaw lets her touch her like this, the way Root had longed to for so long, and it is better than Root had imagined. She'd imagined being brushed off, brushed away, but Shaw leaned into her touch, returned the soft kisses with such tenderness that Root felt all the way down to her toes.

And when Root rolled away from Shaw in her sleep, Shaw followed her, wrapped a possessive arm around her, thigh resting against Root's buttocks, knee between Root's. Root had seen this gentle affection from Shaw before; it's in the way she cradles a particularly enthralling firearm.

And when Root traced patterns on Shaw's forearm that was wrapped around her, Shaw heard the Morse, felt the binary, could translate the ones and zeros Root communicated with best.
'I love you,' is what Shaw decoded from the Morse. Shaw tapped it back on Root's ribs, and Root rolled over in Shaw's embrace to face her, to trace her fingers over Shaw's face the way she runs her fingers over her servers; Shaw can see a ten year old's fingers on a keyboard as she plays Oregon Trail all alone, can see the way Root looks when she speaks to The Machine (a little wonder, mixed with awe), can see a sad young woman dissociate from human contact. When Root's fingers touched her mouth, Shaw let them trace her lips, let her in.

Neither of them care much for people, or emotions; either of them. Maybe that's why it works. Shaw is like a machine, and Root loves machines. Root tells the truth, and Shaw can trust her, and Shaw... needs truth and trust. She needs orders, and Root is the GUI for the orders from the only system she trusts. Shaw rubbed her fingers over each of Root's scars, a body that seemed so much more vulnerable and fragile than her own. Behind Root's ear, on her arms, shoulders, legs. Old gunshot wounds. Root does the same, cataloguing, asking questions. Never shocked by the answers.

The Machine was quiet, respectful of their space, but eventually Root sat up, said 'absolutely' and Shaw watched Root's breasts sway as she dressed.