Faux Pas
Zoe Morgan was a practical woman. Granted, she had arrived in suburbia in an outfit far better suited to a Manhattan cocktail party; no sense getting all the way out of her comfort zone until she absolutely had to. But she had done her homework and brought with her all the necessary ingredients for verisimilitude, including copies of every cookbook Martha Stewart had ever written.
Knowing that John might bring Graham in this afternoon, she was poring diligently over one of these in the kitchen (Green bean and artichoke casserole? Really?), doing her best impression of the devoted yet sophisticated housewife, when the door opened. As Bear gave an excited bark and skittered to the foyer, Zoe glanced up to see that John indeed had a guest with him, but it wasn't Graham.
"Harold, hi. Good to see you." She shoved the cookbook aside with more force than was strictly necessary, and got up with a genuine smile. She didn't know Harold Finch very well (did anybody?), but by now any face from New York City was a face that Zoe could gladly have kissed on both cheeks.
Looking up from patting the dog's head, Harold gave her his usual stiff nod and brief uplift of the lips. "And you as well, Ms. Morgan."
Zoe took in the small, formerly natty figure, now arrayed in a blue jumpsuit complete with nametag. "Love the outfit."
"Suits him, doesn't it?" John smirked. "I'm always telling him he should try going more casual."
Harold pointedly ignored this, heading for the kitchen with a businesslike air only slightly marred by the dog prancing joyously along beside him. Zoe gestured toward a chair.
"Come sit down. I haven't seen you since before—"
Swiftly as the flick of a whip, the air in the room changed. A different sort of stiffness, a kind that had nothing to do with his physical condition, came over Harold all at once, leaving him still and pale and glassy-eyed in the middle of the room. John shot Zoe a sharp glance before taking a quick, anxious step toward his friend.
Zoe halted in mid-sentence, feeling her face turn hot. It wasn't like her to make a faux pas. (A couple of days in the 'burbs and I'm already losing my touch?) She knew well—none better—the damage a few words could do to a person, but the devastation on Harold Finch's face was something rare in her experience, and had her fighting a mad urge to play with her hair like an embarrassed schoolgirl.
Enough, Zoe. You can't undo it, so let it go. Hastily she took control of herself and the conversation. "You're looking very well, Harold," she stated, gently and simply.
In a matter of seconds, Harold seemed to come back from a great distance. "I am, thank you," he responded, a little tightly but with impeccable courtesy. "And you?"
"Oh, fine. Got married the other day. Very sudden, but you know . . . it happens." Zoe's quip did the trick, or began to, at least. Harold's smile was a small and wintry one, even for him, but his shoulders started to relax and the lost expression was fading from his eyes.
"So I understand." Resolutely, thin lips pressed together, he moved toward the chair she had pointed out to him. "I wonder if I might use the laptop John brought?" he asked as he seated himself.
"Of course." Zoe went to get it, tossing John an apologetic look as she passed him. He received it with barely a flicker of acknowledgment, but as she came back with the laptop, she noticed him moving to stand close behind Harold's chair, his demeanor more like that of a faithful guard dog than anything Bear had ever achieved.
Zoe Morgan was a practical woman, used to studying attitudes and gathering hints that might someday be useful. What she saw now, and mentally filed away for future reference, was that if anyone ever took or hurt Harold Finch again, it would be over his best friend's dead body.