Sorry for the long and lame delay! I do want to assure any readers that the remaining chapters are not only plotted but mostly written.

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Home from the gym, Bobby methodically went about making something to eat. He pan-seared a nice cut of ahi and steamed some broccoli, and felt a little better as he ate. At least one part of his plan was going well- the plan where he lost his gut and got in better shape. Better shape for her, if he was honest.

The rest of his plan, though…he needed a different plan. He slowly chewed his healthy meal and allowed himself to completely abandon his former cautious and analytical strategy. His feigned indifference towards Eames was driving her right into Dave's lecherous, varnish-stained hands.

He shook his head as he swallowed his last bite of fish. If this Dave character was pursuing her, could there be other men? His eyes narrowed as he considered how Ross had made it a habit to stop by Eames' desk some mornings to discuss the Knicks' performance the night before. Logan practically painted his face orange and blue for the games, and Ross didn't seem inclined to talk basketball with him.

And Wilson, from the lab. Twice this month he'd stopped by to drop off reports that could have been faxed over, lingering to joke around with her. Bobby dropped his fork in disgust. God, why had he never noticed what a pit of vipers he worked in?

No, he had to stop thinking about the competition. He calmed himself by recalling one of his favorite quotes. "The only competition worthy of a wise man is with himself," he murmured out loud. It was interesting, because this quote was attributed, at different times, to two very different people- Washington Allston (American, 1779-1843) and Anna Brownwell Jameson (Irish, 1794-1860). While Allston was more recognized as a painter, some sources believed…STOP. Just stop, he told himself. He recognized that delving into obscure knowledge was his own form of self-soothing.

He needed to concentrate on the issue at hand. Eames. Alex. If she was here, she'd roll her eyes at him as he went off on his tangent. And that was what he wanted. Her, here, eating his wholesome dinner, laughing and insisting that they went out for ice cream to balance out the disgustingly healthiness of it all.

As he washed dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, Bobby formulated the first step of his new plan. He had to let her know how he felt. But he couldn't see his way through the intermediate steps. He worried that if he cracked the door, allowed his feelings to show, even a little, everything would rush out at once, in a torrent of kisses, and poetry whispered into her ear, and passionate declarations in several languages. OK, then. Step 1 was Stop Acting Like Such a Complete Tool - But Don't Freak Her Out. He had a plan. He was a man with a plan. He squared his shoulders, dropped the dishrag and went off to research the origins of that quotation a little more.

Bobby entered 1PP early the next morning. Step 1, he reminded himself. He settled into work. Twenty minutes later Eames' arrival was announced with a thump as she set her bag on the desk.

"Another day, another half dollar," she greeted him.

"Good morning," he smiled back. God, she looked good. The gray pants and that blue shirt. Her hair was still damp and he could smell her shampoo. His nostrils flared very slightly. Aveda Rosemary and Mint. He watched her as she settled in at her desk, rifling through her messages and turning on her laptop.

She looked up to find his eyes still on her, a slight smile playing about his lips. She grinned back.

"Well, someone's in a good mood this morning," she teased. "What put that smile on your face? Did you solve the case while I was getting my beauty rest? Or was there a new copy of American Scientific in your mailbox last night?"

Bobby's smile faltered. Oh God, he was grinning at her like an idiot. Or a clown. An idiot clown. He nervously shuffled his feet. His big, idiot, clown feet.

"Oh, no, nothing," he faltered, turning his eyes back to the stack of files in front of him. Shit, I cannot do this.

"Hey." Eames voice was low, the tone she used for private conversations in this very public workspace.

He looked up, carefully keeping his face neutral.

She smiled. "I'm just glad to see you in a good mood."

Her eyes were so soft and so…sincere. He held her glance. "Seeing you come in here every morning usually has that effect on me." He paused. "Sorry I don't express it more often." He bravely held her stare and watched as a slight flush bloomed across her cheeks.

"I…" she faltered a step, no snappy comeback evident. But she did not look away. I'm…glad." she finished weakly and then suddenly dropped her gaze to her suddenly fascinating laptop screen.

"Eames," he said in a low voice, causing her to abruptly look up again. "It's Scientific American." She laughed and threw a pencil at his head.

He bit back a smile and turned his eyes to his files.

Later that afternoon, over lunch at their regular diner, she asked him the same question she had been asking for so long. She always waited for a pause, an appropriate break.

"So, how are you doing?"

He paused, feeling as though he had to concentrate in order to stop the "Fine, just fine" that had been his answer for as long as she had been asking from coming automatically out of his mouth.

Instead, he took a sip of water and looked at her. Observed how, as always, she had stopped eating when she asked him that question. Was waiting, giving him this small opening to open up and really tell her how he was doing. How many times had this offer been made to him? How many times had he brushed it aside? And yet, here she was, her fork down, her kind eyes looking at him, patiently waiting for his answer.

"Actually, I'm feeling better these days." He shifted in the booth. He saw her small start of surprise when he continued. "I've been seeing that therapist…you know the one you recommended…the one you saw after….." he trailed off a little uncertainly.

"After Jo Gage." Alex finished for him. She was still looking at him, and her eyes were still warm and interested.

"Yeah…" he swallowed. "After Jo Gage. I've been talking to her. It's been good."

She smiled. "I'm glad."

She picked up her fork.

Now, you idiot. Now, this is the hardest part. Now.

He continued. "He thinks that..."

She set her fork down, and though her eyes were surprised, they were still so warm.

After an obscenely long lunch, as they walked out of the diner, he allowed himself to do something he had wanted to do for, well, forever. He allowed his hand to settle at the small of her back, exerting the tiniest bit of pressure as they walked through the doorway.

He had studied body language, and considered himself an expert at it. He had known enough women to know that he would always be an acolyte when it came to their most inner workings. But he knew Eames, and would have known in a second if she had pulled away from the slight pressure of his hand. She didn't.