Zoe Morgan knows she's going to do it the moment Harold Finch rings her with his crazy request. She's the fixer, she can fix anything, besides Zoe's up for the challenge, and John Reese is certainly a challenge.
She walks into the bar, clocks him, orientates herself, hears the beep from Finch telling her go and surges towards him.
He almost doesn't see her coming. And he's flustered. Off balance. Delightful. Zoe throws her arms wide, smile on her face is triumph with just a hint of mockery thrown in.
As soon as her body makes contact with his, she knows she's made a mistake. The biter's been bit. John's still confused, her arms around his neck, she whispers in his ear, her body pressed to his, as they turn towards the subject she realizes her body is still perfectly aligned with John's. They're touching in all the ways that matter. She barely takes in the other woman. Maxine Angelis is no threat to her.
She does her piece, pats him on his ass, knowing the last thing he will feel from this little encounter is her hand caressing his all too perfect flesh even through his suit. Zoe understands the psychology of the moment and she walks away with confidence, because she can feel the weight of his eyes on her back.
This is confidence that she really doesn't feel inside. But never let them see you bleed. She wants him, she needs him dammit. And Zoe Morgan doesn't need any man.
This is all Finch's fault. He asked her to do this.
She walks away, hips swinging, feeling the pressure of his eyes upon her and the longing of his soul following her out the door.
DAMMIT and double DAMMIT.
Because she wants him too much and this is damn inconvenient. She has no place in her life for someone like John.
Tall, dark and handsome, capable even ruthless, he's the missing part of herself. They're both damaged, but together they would be unbeatable and she wants that.
He comes with baggage, and attachments, but she doesn't care about those. John brings a visceral excitement to her life. And face it, the baggage is pretty damn nice too. She finds herself grateful for Harold. Without Harold and his mysterious information and the sexiest vigilante in New York she would be dead.
Out on the sidewalk, in the cool of the evening, she decides to walk. She needs to get her head straight.
Zoe's used to being the one in command, the faultlessly self-possessed one, coolly sorting the problems of the slapdash and stupid. She's not given to soul-searching or self-assessment. She does what she does.
The trouble is, that is not what she does. She knows that she's been lying to herself from the second her arms went round John's neck and her body settled where it wanted to be. Right next to John.
Somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind, a little flame flickers. Harold sent her. Why would Harold do that?
Perhaps she was overthinking it, but somehow she had the feeling that Harold Finch knew exactly what he was doing when he threw Zoe Morgan into John Reese's arms.
She pauses beneath the street light and the camera. Looks up to the skies. "Okay, I'll bite." And walks on.