Zoe Morgan was normally the definition of grace under pressure. She was not prone to fits of temper, crying jags or emotional outbursts of any sort. Cool, calm and ready to collect was an essential attitude in her line of work. Even in her love life, men had never been a major concern. With the exception of the sweetheart in high school she'd lost her virginity to, men were picked for a balance of looks, excitement and usefulness, versus any potential longevity; she came, they went. Simple as that.
So what made this man in a suit, an honest to goodness superhero incognito, so damn attractive? True he hit every possible point on her checklist, and the time they spent together was never dull… and of course if it hadn't been for him on more than one occasion, her days would be spent rotting in a box bored out of her skull. But basic survivor's appreciation didn't explain the butterflies she got in her stomach when he called, the constant willingness to at least hear out what he wanted before laying out her quid pro quo, or the little pang she'd felt when he'd asked her help wooing another woman. Granted, the woman was an intellectual stunner, as well as a client who needed to be kept in the dark, but John's obvious deeper attraction had annoyed Zoe, and the knowledge things hadn't worked out had left her absurdly pleased.
Now here he was again, a deliberately casual pose that made him look like an off duty playboy spy. Their interaction was flirtatious fencing, a constant give and take between perfectly matched players. Appreciative gazes drifting over each other as she approached, quiet banter exchanged in rich tones dripping with practiced calm. She'd been prepared for a request (there was no other reason he'd find her, however much she'd like there to be), but a proposal had left her stunned. A neutral expression only undermined by the slight pucker between meticulously groomed eyebrows as she tried to determine how serious this was. Could it be a con, a simple ruse? He was smiling after all, waiting for her reply.
An infinitesimally small part of her normally kept under lock, key and reinforced steel vault doors wanted it to be real, and an unfortunate hopeful spark flared to life as she pondered. The poker player in her finally managed to gain control; she always played close to the vest and this would be no different. If he just needed her help, she'd say yes; if it turned out to be true, she'd jump off that bridge when she came to it.
"Remember when you saved me from being tortured and killed by corporate hit men?" His eyes, regarding her patiently over the open trunk, indicated that he did. A wry smile touched her mouth as she continued, "Consider us even."
"Does that mean you don't want me to carry you across the threshold?" His response made her knees (and a few other things) quiver momentarily. It was the tone that did it: a slight deepening of his already rich baritone, a hint of seduction and dark bedrooms and voices husky from screaming out each other's names… She'd had no reply to that, and he'd simply switched back to normal mode, whistling as he let Bear out of the car. It was simple and domestic yet oddly enticing, the effects of suburbia she supposed, and she felt a genuine smile on her face as she commented to break the mood. "When this is over, I might have to fight you for custody of the dog." The soft rumble of his laughter followed her into their temporary home.
The prospect of a shuttered stakeout was not appealing to Zoe, already feeling the minor claustrophobia one gets the first day of suburban living. "Ugh, what do these people do for fun?" John adopted a wide-eyed expression, as though an answer would appear if only he could open his eyes enough to see it; he looked like a restless grammar school kid 3 weeks into summer vacation. "Beats me. Got any ideas?" Zoe couldn't stop the sparkle that lit her eyes as she weighed her words. Oh, she had ideas, plenty of them involving uncommon uses for ice cubes neckties, but she sensed now was not the time for that kind of game. Poker, on the other hand, was always a good idea. The suggestion was instantly taken up, him retrieving the poker set he'd brought along, her producing the bottle of 12 year old scotch she always traveled with, 2 glasses and a holster of cigars.
Six hands later, her Partages Black Label smoldered happily in its ashtray while he regarded her through the smoke of his Reina Feliz cheroot. His poker face was a few degrees of eyebrow movement off from his everyday expression, but he was fun to play with and a truly worthy opponent.
The combination of good scotch, good company and 5 card draw was making her feel better, A check on their target between hands 11 and 12 turned up no cause for alarm, and she was willing to admit maybe the suburbs weren't so bad after all. A resolution to raise the stakes with clothing forfeitures was met with all the enthusiastic amusement as could be mustered at quarter to midnight. Rounds progressed in a ping-pong manner until they were in well-matched states of dishabille, stealing mutual glances at bared anatomy between antes and raises.
The twentieth hand began with another interesting proposition, as the hour was growing late, the scotch was running low and the players were close to acknowledging the need to retire. Sleeping arrangements would be the final stakes: winner got the bed, loser got the couch. The deal left John with a pair, parlayed into two when he traded two cards of no help for a second Jack. Zoe came out staring at a house full of ladies, which she held in lieu of running for an improbable fourth queen. Chips clinked, ashes fell, the clock ticked until the showdown came. John turned his hand, and for a moment she considered folding and simply inviting herself to bed. Then she drew a breath, splayed her cards and flashed him a winsome smile as she ground out her cigar. "Good night, John. You know where I am if you need me."
She'd lain in the dark for almost an hour, hearing the soft creaks of the sofa as he tossed and turned, comforted by his presence in the house, disappointed by the distance between them. Her decision to invite him to spend the night in whatever context he liked had gotten as far as her hand on the covers when she'd heard a floorboard squeak, then another. Even a soldier who could move silently in combat boots and dress shoes was no match for a quaint three-bedroom with original oak floors. The bedroom door was open, the room swathed in shadows as he entered. Neither spoke but both were aware of the other's presence… and awareness. As the quiet settled back around them like a quilt, she decided to forgo the light, pushed up to a sitting position and spoke in his general direction.
"Did you need something, John?" The soft breath he drew reached her ears a few seconds before the rest of his answer. "I have tail the Wylers in the morning. And I've slept in some uncomfortable situations but that couch is one of the worst. We could market it as a torture device to rich fetishists." Her quiet chuckle wove its way through the air, followed by a casual "So…? You figured the bed was big enough for the both of us, cowboy?" A soft snort of laughter preceded his response. "Something like that. As long as it's all right with you. I can sleep on top of the covers if it would make you more comfortable."
Despite his unusual occupation and the tenets of his former line of work, he was a gentleman… a gentle man; the realization made her smile in the darkness. "I appreciate the offer, John, but it's a little too cool for such chivalry. Besides, I think we're mature enough to sleep together, and comfortable enough to actually sleep together. As long as you brushed your teeth." Their soft laughter mingled as he climbed in beside her, and she resumed her position facing the wall, one arm beneath her pillow, the other cradled above her hip.
After a moment or two, she felt him shift closer, hesitate, and slowly lay an arm beneath hers. The weight was slight, as though he were seeking permission to be near. In silent response to his unspoken question, she eased back against him and waited. A slow exhalation stirred her hair before his arms enveloped her in a grip loose enough to be broken, yet firm enough to make her feel safe and protected. His head was angled just behind hers, so a little current of air caressed the top of her shoulder each time he breathed. Their fingers curled against each other beneath the pillow. He was warm and solid, close without smothering her, accepting what she offered… what they both knew he needed. Whispering a final good night, Zoe sighed and closed her eyes. She was almost asleep when he brushed his lips against her hair and whispered back, "Good night, Zoe."
Author's Note: just couldn't seem to make it through the episode without chasing this little plot bunny. Please R&R. As always, enjoy!