A/N: Well, I'm 12 pages into my paper on Czech nationalism, and I swear to god, if I never hear the word "Bohemia" again, it'll be too soon! I rewarded my hard work by allowing myself to fic for a while...here's the result.

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He lost track of her sometime after they shared a lunch of deli sandwiches in the conference room, largely because he had been doing his best to keep his distance from her for fear of setting off another of her panic reactions. In fact, much to his later self-disgust, he didn't realize that he'd misplaced his partner at all until Deakins stopped in front of his desk later in the day.

"Goren," Deakins said with a nod, knocking on the edge of the desk.

Bobby, who had been concentrating intensely on a sorting through stack of phone dumps from a case, looked up and blinked. "Uh, hi. You need something?"

"No, just stopped by to check in." The words sounded dismissive, but Deakins pointedly continued to stand in from of Goren's desk.

"Check in on what?" Bobby asked blankly, starting to get the feeling that he was playing directly into some kind of trap.

Finally having elicited the set-up line he needed, Deakins grinned. "On whether you're aware of the fact that your partner's passed out next to the coffee pot. Passed out against the coffee pot, actually; Hutchinson already had to re-brew one batch because her hair fell into the pot when he went to pick it up."

Bobby put down his pencil with a precise, controlled movement, and in that moment the only thought that entered his head was, Damn it, that means we're going to have to wash her hair again. "No, I wasn't aware of that, but it doesn't particularly surprise me. Did it occur to anyone that a simple solution would be to push her over the other way so her hair wasn't falling in the direction of the pot?"

"Beats me. I only drink the coffee, I don't make it. You're just gonna leave her there?" he asked with raised eyebrows. "What happened to the over-protective Goren she's been bitching about?"

Bobby sighed. "He lost another fight to her, during which she informed him that no one would mind if she fell asleep next to the coffee pot."

"Have you won any of the skirmishes between you two?" Deakins asked conversationally, dropping into Eames's chair across from the other man. "Or is she pretty much consistently walking all over you? And you know, it's not the sleeping we mind - it's the invading female hair thing."

"She's let me win a few," he replied with a shrug. "Enough so I haven't killed her yet, anyway. I suppose you want me to wake her up?"

"Uh, it would be rather helpful, yeah," Deakins said with friendly sarcasm. "Or at least push her over the other way. No one else wants to get close enough to do it."

"Uh . . . should I ask why no one else wants to get close enough to do it?"

Deakins coughed and hid a smile behind his hand. "It's probably because she, uh, kind of took a swing - a sleepy, halfhearted one, but still a swing - at Hutchinson when he tried to get her up."

Yeah, she has a habit of refusing to be woken up. For once, he managed not to blurt out his first thought on the topic, for which he mentally patted himself on the back. Telling Deakins that it was a habit would only lead to questions about why he knew about his partner's sleeping habits in the first place. "Did she connect?" he managed in what he hoped was a cool voice, after a taking a second to swallow the groan and jumble of curses that were his second inclination after the thought about it being habit.

"Nah. He's got fast reflexes, she didn't even come close. But, well, no one else wants to chance it now."

Bobby sighed. "Yeah. I'll get her out of there. Don't know where else I can put her," he added, looking around the room for something resembling a clean surface or soft chair, "but I'll move her."

"You could always just clear off her desk and let her lie there. That is, assuming there's a desk under all that paper you've got scattered over it right now. But you know . . . for today, it's already past four - why don't you just go ahead and take both of you home instead of having to worry about where to put her until the end of the day?"

"I can try to call her brother, sir," Bobby said quickly, beginning to shake his head to refuse the offer. "There's no reason I can't finish out the day."

"You mean except the part where your concentration's shot to shit when you don't have at least one eye on her at all times?"

Couldn't argue with that; Deakins had a point. With a beleaguered groan, Bobby stood up. "Ok, if you say so."

Deakins grinned and rubbed his hands together as he started to follow Bobby across the room. "I'm right behind you. This, I gotta see."

Bobby didn't reply to that, just kept moving. A few seconds later when they walked into the break room, they found two other detectives standing by the counter and conducting a low-voiced conversation that included surreptitious glances at their sleeping co-worker.

"Williams, Miller," Deakins acknowledged dryly, pretending that it wasn't patently obvious that they were talking about Eames. "You might want to quit your gossiping and get your asses out of here," he went on, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. "Goren's gonna wake her up, and you don't want to be around for that."

When both detectives mumbled agreements and slunk out of the room, Bobby sighed. "At least they didn't paint a moustache on her."

"Excuse me?"

"That was the other thing she told me, after she said no one would, uh, mind if she fell asleep in here. 'They'll probably just paint a moustache on me and take blackmail pictures'," he quoted.

"There's still time," Deakins said thoughtfully, producing a sharpie from the pocket of his pants.

Goren snorted and pulled the marker out of his hand. "Too late now." He set it down on the counter, just out of Deakins's reach, then turned back to where Alex sat.

"I'm . . . gonna be over here while you do that," Deakins murmured, hastily pointing to a far corner of the room.

Bobby just rolled his eyes and stepped to the side of his partner so he would be mostly out of the path of her swing, if she took one. First order of business was to get her and her hair away from the hot surface of the coffeepot's burner. "Eames?" he tried as he slipped a hand tentatively between her temple and the machine and pushed her head to the other side.

Alex mumbled something and swatted a hand in the general direction of his voice. Fortunately for him, her aim was off by a mile; equally fortunately for her, he caught her wrist just in time to prevent her hand from connecting with the coffeepot in its path.

"Geez, is she always like this when she wakes up?" Deakins asked as he watched Goren lower his partner's hand back to her thigh and pin it there with his forearm.

Glad that his lunchtime conversation with Alex had prepared him for the possibility of such a comment, Bobby slowly turned his head to give Deakins a politely blank look and shrugged. "How would I know?"

The captain sighed, disappointed that once again one of the detectives had dodged his trap. "Just asking."

He didn't bother to respond to that, instead turning back to Alex's sleeping form. "Come on, Eames," he said, giving her leg a shake under his arm.

"No."

"Yes," he replied, trying not to laugh at how predictable her wake-up routine was getting. "Because Deakins is standing right here, watching you, and you really don't want him to think you're not up to being back at work, right?"

Her eyes popped open. "I'm up."

Deakins smirked. "Sure you are. Take her home, Goren. See you two in the morning."

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"I thought my hair smelled funny," Alex said with dawning understanding later that night. She was stretched across the length of the couch, resting her head on Bobby's leg. He'd insisted on throwing a blanket over her, and she was feeling warm and comfortable in a way that was way too nice to be legal. "Well, at least it was fresh coffee with no sugar or milk in it. I don't even want to think about trying to get that crap out."

"You and me both," he remarked absently, trying as gently as he could to separate pieces of her hair that were glued together with dried-on coffee.

"A comb might help, you know." She reached a hand out from under the blanket, intending to take her hair back from him, but he used one of his to stop it.

"I'm, uh . . . I'm kind of enjoying doing it like this."

Alex replaced her hand under the blanket and looked up at him, crossing eyes comically. "Have I told you today that you're weird?"

"Not today, no. Thanks for the reminder." Returning his attention to the strands he'd been working on, he sighed. "I think we're going to have to wash it."

"It's just coffee, I can live with it for a few days," she said quickly, turning on her side, which pulled her hair out of his hand.

"I'm not letting you out of this apartment with dirty hair."

She snorted. "Thanks, mom. I thought you absolutely refused to wash it again, anyway."

He opened his mouth to say something, reconsidered, and shut it again.

"Bobby?" she asked, craning her neck to see his face. "You gonna answer me, or just stare at me?"

He shrugged. "I was . . . thinking."

"Uh-huh. You still didn't answer me. I thought you refused to wash my hair ever again."

"Well," he said, shifting his weight nervously, "it's not exactly one of my favorite activities." But it would be if I was doing it in the shower and not the sink. "But it has to get done, so it's pointless to try to avoid it."

She turned onto her back again and put her arms on top of her blanket. "You know, rumor has it that washing a woman's hair can be a really sensual experience. Wonder what we've been doing wrong . . ."

"I think it's the part involving the kitchen sink." He suppressed a smile, proud of himself for having an appropriate comeback for once. As for the part about sensuality . . . that was best ignored, he told himself.

"You think?" She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "We could always do it in the bathroom sink, instead."

"Sorry, Eames, but I don't think you're going to be doing anything sensual in the foreseeable future. That stuff generally requires, uh, a normal range of motion. And no crushed bones."

"Wanna test that theory?"

His eyes widened. "No."

"Scared of little old me," she scoffed playfully, swiveling on the couch so she could put her feet on the floor. "Guess I'll be washing my own hair tonight." With a slightly pained grunt, she got to her feet and headed for the kitchen, silently counting off the seconds in her head until he reacted.

"No way am I letting you do it by yourself," he said from a few steps behind her, reaching out to grab her wrist.

She stopped, turned around, and gave him a toothy smile as she reached down to pry his fingers off of her one-by-one. Then, satisfied by the worry that appeared on his face, she detoured down the hallway, pulling a towel out of her linen closet and then grabbing her shampoo and conditioner from the bathroom. "I'm serious when I say that you don't have to if you don't want to, Bobby. I can probably manage."

"I don't think I want to rely on 'probably,' if you don't mind," he replied, taking a step into the hallway and relieving her of the items in her arms. "I didn't really hate it that much, it's just that I'm not good at it."

"So what? It's not like you're applying for a job at 'Salon d'Alex' or something. As long as the shampoo goes in and then goes out, it's all good."

"Well, I got it so tangled last time," he said dubiously. "But if you're willing to chance it, then so am I." Shaking out the towel, he draped it around her shoulders. "Last chance to back out."

Alex just rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand, pulling him into the kitchen.

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The phone on the kitchen wall began to ring just as they were preparing to wash out her headful of suds half an hour later. "Shit!" Alex muttered into the towel that was wrapped around her neck.

"Want me to grab it?" he asked, already reaching for a dish towel to dry his hands. He'd gotten used to picking up her phone in the past few days, since she tended to sleep through the ringing, and the few people who'd called multiple times had, in turn, gotten used to hearing a male voice answer their calls.

"Yeah, please, and tell whoever it is to hold on a second while I rinse this mess out." Having thus resolved the issue, she reached for the spray faucet, sat up a little higher on her knees, and directed the flow of water at her head.

The water running over her ears made it difficult to hear what was said when Bobby answered the phone. He found himself immensely grateful for this fact a few seconds later when he picked up the phone. "Eames residence," he mumbled into the handset, balancing it between ear and shoulder as he finished drying his hands.

There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the line, then a confused-sounding female voice said, "Uh . . . I must have a wrong number. I was trying to call my daughter."

The towel fell to the floor, forgotten, and he froze in place as though the woman could see him. "Mrs. Eames. Um, no, you have the right number. Alex . . . she's, uh, doing something. Would you mind holding on?"

"Well, I suppose that's my only choice," Molly Eames said good-naturedly, trying not to wonder what it was that her daughter was busy doing that involved a man who was answering her phone.

He covered the phone with one hand and turned to the woman at the sink, trying not to look alarmed. "Alex."

She straightened up enough that her face was out of the sink and she could look at him, but kept her head angled into the basin so her still-soapy hair didn't drip on the floor. "Who is it?"

He sighed. "It's your mother."

"Damn it! Tell her to hold on." She turned the water pressure up and rushed through the rest of the rinse, then wrung her hair out and pushed it behind her ears, knowing that her back would end up soaked but also knowing that she couldn't talk on the phone with a towel covering her ears. "Ok, give me the phone."

"I told her to hold on," he belatedly informed her as he held out the phone.

"Uh, yeah, thanks." She took the phone from him and wandered out of the kitchen, knowing she'd left him a pile of suds on the counter to clean up. "Hi, Mom."

"Alex, you promised to call me and your father tonight."

"And the night's not over yet. Don't get yourself in a panic." Inspiration struck and she grabbed a new towel from the linen closet and began to try to dry her hair one-handed, section by section.

Her mother snorted disgustedly. "You're telling me not to panic when there's a man answering your phone and telling me that you're mysteriously busy?"

Alex sighed and lowered herself onto the couch. "It was just Bobby, Ma! And I take it you and Dad haven't been sharing information lately?"

"What information should we have shared?"

She allowed herself the luxury of a full-blown smirk, knowing she was about to get her father in hot water. "Dad thinks I'm shacking up with Goren, but you didn't realize it was him who answered the phone. So apparently one of you's been keeping secrets from the other."

"I beg your pardon? Why in the world would your father think you're . . . actually, what exactly does 'shacking up' mean these days? No, forget that. Why would your father think whatever it is that he thinks, I mean."

Molly was sounding a little too innocent, in Alex's opinion. "Uh, I thought you were there for dinner last night. Or were you hiding in the kitchen when Rob opened his yap?"

"Ohhhh." There was a wealth of new understanding in the word. "Well yes, but Laura said that it was a trauma thing, so I just assumed . . . Was she lying? Do I need to be worried about you?"

She grinned. "Not was far as my shacking up or not shacking up, you don't. But if you understood what Laura said, then why is Dad convinced that I need a lecture on the topic of not dating my partner?"

"When did he lecture you on that?" she asked, trying to remember if she had heard such a discussion at dinner the night before.

"Today. In the middle of the squad room." Ok, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but he might as well have not pulled her into the hall, since everyone probably overheard anyway.

Molly drew in a sharp breath. An abrupt series of clunking sounds, followed by a dry rustling, passed through the phone lines. "Johnny!" her mother's voice screamed. "Get in here!"

Her command was followed by more strange noises, then loud, muffled voices, and Alex pictured her mother dropping the phone on the table and then picking it up again while holding her father by one ear. Giggling at the thought, she put the receiver holes-up in her lap so she could hear when Molly started to speak into the phone again and took the opportunity to use two hands on her hair, trying to comb her fingers through it.

"You're done already?" Bobby asked as he entered the room, surprised to see that she didn't have the phone to her ear.

"Nah." She nodded down at the phone balanced on her knees. "She's busy screaming at my dad so I decided to give myself a break.

He blinked. "Should I ask?"

"Probably better not to until I finish with them. Feel free to pull up some couch and eavesdrop, though," she added, patting the cushion next to her. Her other hand hit a snarl in her hair and she winced. "Ouch."

He cocked his head to the side, studying her for a moment. "You want me to do that for you?"

"Do what? Detangle my hair?"

"Yeah. I mean, if you want me to."

Alex raised her eyebrows and smiled. "I'm starting to regret that I'm not actually shacking up with you. There's a comb on the bathroom counter."

"Shacking up?" he echoed over his shoulder as he went in search of it item in question.

"Somehow 'cohabiting' doesn't sounds nearly as racy. I told my mom that Dad thinks you and I are shacking up."

"Alex," he groaned. "Don't you think they dislike me enough already without you saying things like that?"

"No, it's ok. Apparently Laura did explain the trauma nightmares thing last night, it's just that my dad chose not to believe it. So Mom's fine with you and me. It's-" She was interrupted by a squawk from the phone. "Hold that thought," she told him, picking up the phone as he emerged from the bathroom with the comb. "Mom?"

"Your father apologizes, Alex." Molly sounded slightly breathless, and Alex wondered exactly what she had been doing in the past minute.

"Yeah, I bet he does." She jumped slightly as Bobby touched the comb to her head, then relaxed and tipped her head back to smile at him. "What'd you do, threaten to make him sleep on the couch?"

"I am above that, young lady!" she said haughtily. Then, after a pause, she added, "I threatened to make him sleep outside."

Alex burst out laughing, causing Bobby's unsteady combing to rake the phone.

"What was that noise?" her mother asked.

"Brushing my hair," she said casually. "I'm impressed that Dad's still scared of you after all these years."

"Well, I've always said that when you've got an opinionated husband, it's best to make him toe the line."

"Right, and I'm sure Dad's been letting you think that for thirty-odd years."

"Are you telling me that you let your boyfriends be in charge, Alexandra?" Molly said in a voice dripping with skepticism. "Somehow I doubt it, not after growing up in this house."

She looked up at Bobby, who gave her a politely blank smile. "Ok, I guess you have a point there. It's either be in charge or have no one even notice I'm there because he's so big."

A beat of silence. "Who's 'so big'?"

Damn it, she hadn't even realized she'd said that. "No one. It was just a generic 'he'."

"No, you're talking about someone in particular. You said he's big. Do you have a boyfriend you're not telling me about?"

Molly Eames was not a stupid woman, and Alex knew that it would only take her mother seconds to connect the dots. Time for a tactical retreat. "Hey, Mom, I have to go. No, really," she added quickly when her mother started to protest. "There's, uh . . . soup burning on the stove. Love you, bye!" She stabbed at the off button with a little too much force and fought the urge to throw the phone across the room.

Bobby leaned forward over the back of the couch so he could see her face. "What was that all about? And why were you talking about being in charge of me?"

She sighed heavily and sagged against the couch. "Don't ask."