Disclaimer: noting you recognise belongs to me.
Please note the rise to an "M" rating for consensual sex.
"Will you let me make you dinner?" Zoe had been mulling the words over in her head for the past half hour but they sound even stranger coming out of her mouth. Behind her the taxi that Harold had hailed for her provides a background soundtrack of engine noise that cuts across the city's chatter. She's fairly certain that the cabbie is rolling his eyes at witnessing yet another anonymous hook-up.
Oh Zoe, Zoe, she can't help thinking. What are you doing?
Harold blinks at her and places his hand on the open door of the taxi. When he meets her eyes his expression is curious rather than dismissive.
"You enjoy cooking?" The tone of his voice is mild but Zoe catches the undertones of amusement. "I would have imagined that you employed someone to prepare your meals for you."
"I do." She shifts slightly, places a well manicured hand next to his on the car door. Beside them the empty passenger seats are an unspoken invitation of more than just food. "Sophie has a way with the kitchen and I have a way with the microwave when heating up what she makes." It's a crappy joke and he doesn't laugh. But still... He hasn't made excuses to leave, and so Zoe presses her advantage literally, giving a half step sideways; close enough to be excused for wanting to enter the car while also giving him the scent of her perfume and the faint brush of her body against his. She watches the bob of his adams apple as he swallows hard and doesn't lick her lips in response. No need to overdo this Zoe. Let him come to you.
Harold gently escorts her into the cab before awkwardly following. He doesn't look comfortable in the seat and doesn't make conversation on the short journey. Zoe doesn't take it as an insult. She doesn't mind watching the city as people hurry home to do whatever normal people do. She doesn't mind the quiet and she doesn't mind the fact that the man beside her keeps glancing at her as though she is a puzzle that is only half solved. When they pull up beside her brownstone she pays the driver and resists the urge to help Harold out of the car. She knows that he wouldn't appreciate it and she knows that he's already far outside whatever constitutes his comfort zone. Tread lightly Zoe. The evening is a Turner print of pastel shades and even the dumpster at the corner of the block is bathed in pretty golden light. The night is warm, humid. There will be stars soon but they can wait for later. When Harold kisses her in the elevator Zoe gives a faint moan of satisfaction and the kitchen is bypassed in favour of the bedroom.
When Zoe wakes her Egyptian linen sheets are tangled around her legs and the room is dark. The alarm clock by the bed glows red; 10:15. Seemed later. Her head is muzzy as though she'd been drinking but her mouth isn't dry although her lips are swollen. There's a person next next to her. Harold Finch, obviously still asleep judging by the faint snoring against the back of her neck. Very carefully she rolls over and tries to do inventory on her thoughts. Not clever Zoe. Where the hell is the end-game with this?
The man beside her doesn't stir so she takes the time to properly look at him. With his face squashed down into the pillow and his hair all flattened he looks troubled. His eyes move under the thin skin of his eyelids in what must be a vivid dream and the hand resting beside his head twitches. Zoe takes it, twining her fingers with his and squeezing gently. The twitching stops and the man beside her sighs before settling into quiet rhythmic breathing.
Not handsome, Zoe appraises with one who is acquainted with beauty in all of its forms. A subtle form of attractive however. Put a Whistler against Picasso and the public will always go for the bright colours and ignore the subtleties of an artist equal in talent. The scars on his hip and neck... Obviously non-negotiable when it came for information there. He'd either tell her or he wouldn't. Whatever limitations he had with movement he made up with imagination. She flexes her hips slightly and feels the stretch of muscles gone unused for too long, the faint ache between her legs. Getting up carefully she goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Switching the light on she winces at the brightness and relieves her bladder. The image in the mirror over the sink could be captioned "one-night stand" on a polaroid. Smeared eyeliner, hair all over the place. If she had a teenaged daughter who returned home like this then she would probably be very disapproving. Zoe makes a face at herself but can't find any expected guilt or regret. There's a mark on her neck where Harold may have nipped at her. It doesn't hurt when she pokes at it and it's covered by her hair, but still.. she's a bit too old for hickeys isn't she? Zoe washes off the make-up, drags a brush through her hair and goes back to bed.
Harold is already awake. Zoe suppressed a smile; if she had thought his expression "owlish" before then watching him wake up redefined it.
"Good morning Ms. Morgan." His words are thick with sleep, and Zoe re-thinks her plan. Pattering on bare feet into the kitchen she snags a glass and fills it with cold water. She gives a side-eye to the kitchen cupboards. If Harold wanted breakfast then either they would go out or order in. She wasn't the obedient little.. whatever they were. Giving the man in her bed the glass she perches on the bed. He wriggles up from the pillows with a wince. Snagging his coat from the chair, Zoe fishes out a plastic container of what looks like painkillers from the pocket and after reading the instructions on the bottle shakes two pills into her palm. Harold takes a deep drink before swallowing the pills and placing the glass on the nightstand.
"Thank-you".
Zoe shrugs, crossing one elegant leg over the other. "I would call this mutually beneficial, wouldn't you?" When he offers her the water glass she drinks from it. It tastes like tap water that she wouldn't usually drink and him.
He's had her twice and still looks nervous looking at her. She's wet without him even touching her.
Strange silly man. Not remotely her type.
Zoe takes Harold's hand and places it between her legs. She pushes the heel of his palm against her clit and sighs when he pushes two fingers inside her. Her hips rock involuntarily and when he sits up and pushes her up against his chest she mutters nonsense words when she comes. Whatever it is it's lost in the tangle of her hair trapped between her cheek and his clavicle.
She's careful when she takes him inside her. Letting him go slowly, inch by inch. The stretch of her body is painful and exquisite. The heat of him pushing through muscles long unused. Zoe bucks her hips to meet Harold's thrusts and doesn't kiss him when he comes.
"It's alright, you know." Zoe looks at the man tangled between her sheets. Despite the fact that she knows practically every inch of him intimately she can't help but look at his narrow shoulders draped by white cotton, the slightly hairy knee poking out from the folds a little further down. He's settled one hand across his stomach and the other is settled at the base of her spine. Barely moving, but, oh when they do those clever fingers...
"What is?" There's no accusation in Harold's voice.
Zoe laughs, turning her face away towards the window. The cotton that encases the pillow wrinkle and so does the fine skin at the corners of her eyes.
"The only cock between my legs was yours, and the only name on my lips was yours." She stretches her arms out above her head, fingers curling around the intricate metal headboard. She stretches, bowing her spine with studied grace and looks at the man replete beside her. "You came when I did, as I see it that's as close to monogamy as we're both going to get. We're both married to our jobs. We're neither what the other wants." She lifts an arm languidly and manages to run her fingers through his hair and gives a brief kiss to his forehead. The angle's wrong and it's an awkward kiss. Underneath the smooth skin of her lips, the lip gloss long since kissed away, his forehead is soft. His eyelashes tickle against her cheek.
"In a fairytale this is where we run away together and get married, " Zoe says ruefully.
"You'd be a terrible wife." Harold's eyes are kind and wistful when he says the words. "But your husband would be a lucky man."
"And you're a great fuck but infuriating." Zoe slips out of his embrace and looks around before she finds her dressing gown and slips it on. The silk is cool and soothing against her skin. It feels like armour.
When both their phones ring at the same time Zoe bites back a quip about the fates playing with them.
A/N thanks very much ladies Callih and Blacktop for pointing out my (idiotic) mistakes in the previous chapters. I know that this was supposed to be a five chapter story but I think I'll leave it here. Thanks for reading :)