Especially for KSPretenderfan

"A new number Mr Reese." Finch limped to the glass board and tacked up a picture of an austere-looking, middle-aged man in a dark suit.

Reese selected a fresh donut from the box, ignoring Bear's seated shuffle and lip licking and the hopeful look in the dog's eyes. He wandered over to the board. "Looks funereal."

"Strange you should say that," Finch looked up from his intelligence gathering. "Mr Vincent Pennyman. Funeral Director. We need a little help on this one."

Reese studied the address on the piece of paper that Finch handed to him. "The Hamptons? Really?"

"Your bags are packed." Finch handed over a set of car keys, "and for your cover. Miz Morgan has agreed to be your wife, again." He handed over another set of keys "the house keys, Mr and Mrs John Randall are there to close down the house and arrange the funeral of Captain William Martin, US Navy retired, Mrs John Randall's dearly departed uncle, who hasn't lived in the house for the last fifteen years, but has a family plot at the cemetery. And you wouldn't believe what I had to do to get that. Your back stories, Mr John Randall is an Asset Manager for a Private Securities firm, Mrs John Randall is a Campaign Manager. Your wedding rings," he handed John a box, "engraved with the date of your wedding and vous, et nul autre, I draw the line at the romantic details, you can work that out with Miz Morgan."

Finch picked up some letters, "death certificate, signed release, the body of Captain Martin is being delivered to the funeral home today, you have your first appointment with Mr Vincent Pennyman later today. You're picking Zoe up in fifteen minutes."

Reese sighed. He wasn't sure exactly when things had begun to change between him and Zoe, but it was getting harder and harder to maintain a professional distance.

"I realize Mr Reese that this situation is perhaps a little awkward, but it really makes the most sense."

"I know." Said Reese. "I'm wondering why a funeral director would come on to anyone's radar."

Picking Zoe up from her home, Reese had cause to wonder if Finch was trying to tell him something. The way she glided down the stairs, the way she fit in his arms, her perfume, everything about Zoe Morgan was something he wanted, and something he couldn't want.

Life was never going to be normal. Zoe did what he did, fixed problems, they just went about it in different ways. The trouble was, Reese decided, that his reaction to her was one thing neither of them could fix. If he closed his eyes he could still picture Leila, still picture two lonely bachelors standing outside the little house, with the scene of domestic bliss unfolding before their eyes. Still wishing, and wanting, and hoping.

Still picture that moment in the park where Harold Finch the world's most secretive, obsessive, compulsive and private billionaire had revealed a pain so deep it tore at John Reese's nerve endings.

Reese had had a few short months and four days with Jessica. Harold had had four years of his heart's investment in Grace, and she in him. He heard the pain in both their voices, and wanted to howl his own agony out at that devastating choice that Harold had made. Harold had walked away, and Grace had stopped walking. He could hear it the broken voice, "a very nice guy", in the little nod of her head, in the too wide half smile, curling in on itself at the edges and the frantic darting eyes.

Reese probed his memories of Jessica. He had failed her at the last. And that hurt. But he had never really had her.

It didn't make the feelings of longing, stirred up by Harold's impulsive baby snatch, any easier to cope with.

Now Zoe Morgan was tap-dancing across his nerve centers, and John was uncomfortable about it. It was very simple, Zoe made him believe that he could have it all. He didn't have a clue how she had done it but Zoe Morgan had made John Reese love her.

And he was certain that she didn't love him.

He was also certain that this was impossible, and that this foolish day-dreaming was going to get someone, probably himself, killed.

She glided down the steps in front of her home towards him. One bag, and a suiter, just like his luggage. From somewhere Finch had managed to conjure up luggage that said his and hers. Her arms went wide and curved around his neck and somehow her entire left side imprinted itself indelibly upon his psyche as if she had hog-tied and branded him.

Maxine Angelis had said he was a little hung up on Zoe Morgan. A little did not come close to the feelings that rocketed through him when she touched him. If he thought about it he could still feel the imprint of her fingers on his backside. The impromptu pat said "this is not over."

"Mr and Mrs John Randall." Zoe was looking over the notes that Finch had made for her. John adjusted his seat, made himself comfortable for the long drive. Being aware of Zoe was bad enough when he was just the hired gun who was there to drive. Being aware of Zoe was making him crazy.

She knew it too. There was a special warmth to her smile, the incline of her body in the passenger seat, the way she occasionally uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. The frisson of stockings against the lining of her skirt. Her cashmere sweater, he imagined the softness of the knit against the softness of her skin. He imagined peeling it off her...

Dammit. He shifted a little uncomfortably in the driver's seat.

"Tired, darling?" A throaty purr. Oh god now she knows. He made a non-committal noise deep in his throat and resolutely kept his eyes on the road. Sensing her smile, the teasing in her eyes.

He was driving into hell, stick a fork in me, I'm done.