"So," said Deakins as he ushered Goren and Eames into his office, "what have we got?"

Eames slipped into one of the chairs in front of the Captain's desk, glancing up at Goren, who leaned against the arm of her chair rather than sit in the other one. "The victim is a Dr. James Li, age forty," she said, shifting her weight in the chair.

"He's a . . . professor of linguistics at Empire State University," Goren answered before Deakins could ask the question. "Judging by the papers in his apartment, he's a syntactician."

"A syntactician?" Deakins repeated blankly.

"Syntax is a branch of linguistics," Eames supplied, sliding a printed out webpage across to Deakins. "It deals with grammatical rules and word order."

"If you say so," Deakins said, shrugging, "I was always better at math. What else?"

"ME's preliminary exam says that cause of death was exsanguination," Eames said, "due to multiple lacerations."

Deakins raised an eyebrow. "Meaning . . .?"

"Torture," Eames spat. "They cut him hundreds of times, none big enough to kill but collectively enough to make him bleed out."

"With . . . the addition of some kind of anti-clotting device. Maybe a blood thinner or anti-thrombolitic," Goren added.

The captain shook his head. "Sounds like the kind of scene I'd still be having nightmares about five years from now."

"Definitely a possibility," Eames sighed.

"So where are you taking the case from here?"

"We don't have anything . . . really suggestive," Goren said, opening his leather-bound portfolio. "CSU hadn't found any useable prints or trace when we left the scene."

"I made sure they had us on speed dial," Eames said. "If they find something, we'll be the first to hear it."

"We spoke with the chair of his department," Goren said, tapping his pen against the legal pad in his portfolio. "He's preparing a copy of Li's schedule." tap-tap-tap "Also . . . faxed us his class rosters." tap-tap-tap

Before speaking, Eames reached out and snatched the pen from his hand. Fending off his attempt to steal it back, she tucked it into her jacket pocket and nudged him. "That's annoying," she admonished gently. Turning back to Deakins, she switched smoothly back to the topic at hand. "It's past office hours now, so we're headed over there first thing in the morning. The department chair promised to set up a space for us to interview co-workers and students who dealt with the victim."

"Sounds good," said Deakins, hardly cracking a smile at his detectives' antics, which he'd long ago gotten used to. "Why don't you guys take some of the paperwork you're always behind on and head out early? That way you can be ready for school bright and early tomorrow morning."

"Ooh, paperwork," Eames said with obviously fake enthusiasm. "Not even the first day of school, and we're already getting assigned homework. Come on Bobby, we gotta get ourselves home before curfew."

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"Oh god," Eames groaned later that night. "We're not even inside yet, don't take that stuff out!"

Goren obediently slipped the paperwork he had been about to hand her back into his portfolio and unlocked the door of his apartment. "After you."

Eames let him usher her into the apartment and made a beeline for his kitchen, dropping her bag on the kitchen table. "Got coffee?"

"Mmm," Goren mumbled, nodding his head toward a kitchen cabinet as he hung up his topcoat and set the portfolio on an end table. Eames had been to his apartment often enough to know exactly where to find his food supplies, but she always asked anyway. He theorized that it was her way of pointedly not invading his domain without permission.

Eames dug the coffee out of the cabinet and set Goren's high-tech coffee pot working, then hopped up onto the counter and sat a few feet away from it, watching Goren. "Food? Paperwork?"

Goren shrugged as he approached the source of that attractive coffee scent. "Whatever," he told her leaning one hip against the counter a few inches away from her. "Your choice."

"Hmm," she said, unclipping the barrette that had been holding her hair back and slipping it into her pocket. "If it's my choice, I vote that we burn the paperwork."

Goren watched her actions and, reminded of what had happened earlier, held out his hand. "May I have my pen back?" When Eames looked blank, he explained, "It's in your pocket. You confiscated it when we were with Deakins."

"Oh, right." She fished two pens and a paper clip out of her pocket and dropped the more expensive pen into his open palm. "You're lucky I took it before Deakins threw something at you. You didn't even realize you were tapping, did you?"

"No," he said, turning away to open the fridge. "I never do. You want sandwiches, or do you want to get takeout?"

"Umm," Eames said as she pulled two mugs from another cabinet. "Let's do takeout. I feel like Chinese." Pouring the coffee into the two mugs, she stirred a spoonful of sugar into one and slid it toward Goren. "Your turn to call."

Not bothering to argue, Goren picked up the phone and dialed, ordering sesame beef for himself and dumplings and lo mein for his partner. "Where'd I put that class roster?" he asked as he hung up the phone. "Oh, and they said half an hour." He accepted the folder from Eames and wandered into the living room as he flipped through it.

Eames, rolling her eyes, slid off the counter and followed him, one coffee cup in each hand.

She found Goren sitting on the couch, kicking off his shoes. Patting the cushion next to him with one hand, he held out a sheet of paper with the other. "You get the Monday, Wednesday, Friday classes."

Perfectly willing to avoid regular paperwork for another few minutes, she smiled. "Trade ya." She handed him his coffee, took the paper he was holding out, and sat down, slipping her shoes off and then curling her legs under her as she leaned against the arm of the couch.

They read in silence for a few minutes, occasionally noting down names that appeared in more than one list. Gradually, Goren's concentration on the list faded and he looked up, trying to re-focus himself. Instead, his attention was caught by Eames's position. "Why do you do that?"

Startled, she looked up. "Do what?"

"Sit on your feet. You do that any time you're on a couch. Doesn't it cut off the blood supply?"

Eames smiled tolerantly. "It's comfortable. And it doesn't do any damage to your limbs if you do it right."

"What's 'right'?" he asked, drawing one leg up and trying to copy her posture. "Ow."

"It helps if you're not four sizes too big for the couch, first of all. And I'm not actually sitting on my feet. I'm sitting on my butt with my feet under my thighs."

"How can you . . ." Goren began, leaning over to scrutinize her legs.

"Quit it!" she said, pushing at his shoulder. "My butt is not here for your entertainment."

There was a long moment of silence as Goren politely pretended not to catch the dirty implications of her statement and Eames tried not to seem aware that she had said anything out of the ordinary. Then she lost control and started snickering. "You know what I mean!"

Goren smirked. "Your butt's more entertaining than paperwork."

"Bobby!" she exclaimed, swatting him with her paper. "Get back to work."

"Yes ma'am." Chastising himself for having let slip the fact that he thought about his partner's butt, he stared determinedly at the class list in his hand. "You know, there's a lot of repeat names in this list."

"Mine too," she said without looking up. "Seems to be about four or five of them. Who do you have?"

"Sara King, Jim Owens, Alejandro Torreira, and Andrew Kim are all in both of the classes I've got."

She nodded. "I've got all of those except King, and one you don't have: Jana Wu."

"These are all . . . high-numbered courses. 450, 503, 612 . . ."

"Graduate classes?"

He nodded. "Probably. In which case, it's not that unusual to have repeats. They're probably his advisees."

"Ooh, PhD politics. There's a scene I'd rather not get involved in."

"We just might have to," he replied, handing her his printout as he stood up at some unheard signal. "But comfort yourself with the fact that you won't need to wear your old Vice clothes if you go undercover." He reached the door just as the delivery man knocked on it and quickly relieved the man of their dinner with a muttered thanks.

As he put the bag on the coffee table, Eames, without turning towards him, said, "You want me to pay you back or should I get lunch tomorrow?"

"Lo mein," he said, not bothering to answer her question as he presented her with the container. "And . . . dumplings."

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"Did you ever wonder why we don't just carry permanently-running tape recorders in our pockets?" Eames said a few hours later, launching another completed call form in the general direction of the table.

"That wouldn't be logical," responded Goren, who was slouched so far down on the couch that his calves dangled over the far side of the coffee table his feet had been resting on a few hours earlier. "It would need to be transcribed, which would take as many man-hours as filling out the forms in the first place."

"Pragmatist," she said with a snort that made it clear that she didn't intend the word as a compliment.

Goren just shrugged. "How many more do you have?"

"Way too many." She paused to count them. "Fifteen forms, at twenty minutes per form . . ." She shook her head. "And it's already nine o'clock. Damn."

"Oh, come on," he teased, elbowing her. "I bet you can finish them in less than five hours."

She perked up a little, pleased to see the playful side - the "Bobby" side - of her partner emerge. "You want to bet, for real?"

He looked at her suspiciously. "With what terms?"

She thought about that. "If it takes me longer than five hours . . . you do the paperwork for the next few days. If I finish in less than five hours . . . name your prize."

"Sucker bet," he said, shaking his head. "You can alter your speed to draw it out for hours longer than you'd really need."

"Oh, come on," she said, rolling her eyes. "You're sitting right here to supervise me."

"True," he said, looking thoughtful. "Ok, you're on. But if you cheat, the agreement is voided."

She stretched out one leg and just managed to kick him. "I am not a cheater, Goren."

"Did I say you were?" he said innocently. "Better start working."

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Three hours later, Eames was in the middle of her tenth form. Her pen had slowed down considerably, but she was doggedly pushing on, determined to conquer the pile of forms by the end of the night.

Goren, who had begun with a smaller pile and therefore finished earlier, was alternately working on a cryptogram and watching Eames. He could tell that she was tiring - her handwriting was getting looser and she was letting her head rest against the couch cushions - but she refused to throw their bet. Somehow, he wasn't surprised.

Reminding himself that it was rude to stare, he returned his attention to the puzzle and filled in a set of E's.

Half an hour later, he was jolted out of his concentration by the sensation of something touching his shoulder. Looking down, he found his partner slumped against his left arm, eyes closed and pen still in hand. Poor Eames. She'd been so determined to win the bet that she'd fallen asleep mid-form. Bemused, he just watched her for a while, waiting for her to wake up, apologize, and ask for coffee; however, after two minutes, she remained asleep.

Shaking his head with a small smile, he decided to let her have a short nap and went back to his cryptogram. A three-letter word ending in E that appeared four times in the two-line puzzle . . . had to be the. He filled in the T's and H's and smiled to himself, sensing victory.

An hour later, he caught himself just on the edge of dozing off as his head drooped, and forced his eyes open. Evaluating his situation, he noticed that Eames was still sleeping peacefully against his arm, which was beginning to get numb. The clock on his VCR informed him that it was one o'clock in the morning.

They had to be at work at in less than eight hours, he thought with a sigh. Better send Eames home so they could both get some sleep. "Eames," he whispered, twitching his arm under her head. When she didn't respond, he tried again. "Eames?"

"Mmph," she mumbled, raising one hand to rub at her eye.

When she let her arm fall back to her side and didn't say anything more, he rolled his eyes. He knew few people who could sleep as heavily as his partner, when she was determined. "Alex," he tried, holding her head up with one hand as he extricated his shoulder from under it. "Wake up."

She didn't respond for a second, and then her eyes fluttered open. "Wha?" she muttered, making no effort to pull away from his supporting hand.

"You fell asleep."

She looked down at the papers in her lap, then back up at him. "Did I win?"

He chuckled. "You fell asleep with three forms left, so I guess you did."

Giving him a smug smile, she finally sat up. "Told you."

"You see before you a willing slave," he acknowledged. "Now, it's past one and we both need to get some sleep."

He couldn't hold back a grin when Alex groaned, "I'm already comfortable here; I don't wanna move."

"You got a change of clothes in your car? You can stay here if you want," he offered. It wouldn't be the first time one of them had spent the night at the other's apartment; post-dinner police work tended to lead to sleepy detectives. "The guest room's all yours."

"Yeah," she said, rolling her neck to relieve the kinks from dozing in such an odd position. "I think I'll take you up on that."

"I'll go get your stuff," he offered. "Keys?"

"My bag," she said, gesturing to where she'd dropped it in the kitchen. "Thanks."

"No problem," he said lightly as he went to fetch her car keys. "Get yourself settled."