A warm tongue lapping at his face woke Bobby up the next morning. Blinking, he sat up straight and pushed the dog off his lap, trying to remember what had led to him falling asleep on his couch. A quick mental survey of his body answered that question within seconds; his left arm was asleep and there was a blonde head resting on it.

Blonde hair . . . Eames, then. Danielle had dark hair. It was hard to believe that he and his partner had both managed to pass out sitting up, though. Actually, it was unusual that he'd passed out at all, especially in her presence, but he supposed fatigue had finally caught up with him. The more difficult question was, why hadn't she woken him up, or at least shoved him to the other end of the couch so she could watch TV in peace?

Yawning, he slipped a hand between her head and his arm and lifted it up so he could extract the numb extremity, then laid it back down against the back of the couch and shifted to the side so he could turn to look at her without bumping into her.

The last thing he remembered was telling her about about how systematic the geographic spread of the plague was; he must have dozed off after that. Man, was he so boring that he was even putting himself to sleep these days? He was never going to live this down, he thought with a slight smile as he watched her sleep.

She must have been exhausted, too, to have let herself fall asleep on his shoulder instead of just waking him up and heading back home. If she'd been that tired, why had she walked all the way to his apartment in the first place?

He wondered if this counted as "sleeping with" his partner, then decided that, given the strict NYPD regulations on the subject, he probably didn't want to know. At least he knew who she wasn't sleeping with: Chris Hammond. No, she'd left Hammond with a "thank you," or perhaps a kiss, and then she'd come to spend the night with him.

"Mmph," the object of his thoughts mumbled sleepily, picking up her head and rubbing her eyes. "Why the hell am I asleep sitting up on your couch, Bobby?"

"Plague," he supplied. "We must have fallen asleep while we were watching the documentary."

"Oh." Sighing, she rolled her neck, trying to work out the stiffness her sleeping position had caused. "Ugh, next time wake me up and I'll sleep on the floor or something. At least that way I won't have a stiff neck and -" Mid-roll, she caught sight of his face and abruptly stopped, giving him a curious look. "You look way too happy this morning. Should I be worried?"

He immediately tried to affect a more serious look. "Uh, no," he managed, easing a little more away from her. "It's the weekend; why shouldn't I be happy?"

"Riiight," she drawled, giving him a knowing look. "What time is it, anyway?"

"About eight. We somehow managed to sleep late, even scrunched up on the couch."

"Mmm." She looked down at the dog, who had planted himself on the floor in front of her and was giving both of them a slightly desperate look. "He needs to go out."

"You going to head home, then?"

Stretching, she yawned widely, then grinned at him. "Oh, I don't know. It's Saturday; I've got nowhere better to be. What do you say we take the dog for a walk and get breakfast while we're out?" A quick glance down at herself, and she smiled sheepishly. "You might need to lend me a t-shirt, though. Even if this blouse wasn't dirty, I think it's a little too low-cut for a morning stroll."

Before he could stop them, his eyes tried to verify her statement. Now that she mentioned it, it was a little revealing. Had she worn that all day yesterday and he had somehow managed not to notice it?

"I was wearing a sweater over it," she explained, once again guessing the direction of his thoughts. "I figured Deakins wouldn't be too happy about me wearing something so revealing around the office . . . and the rest of the guys on the squad would be a little too happy about it."

"You're probably right," he acknowledged, nodding as he stood up. "I'll go get you a shirt."


"So," he said casually half an hour later, keeping one eye on the dog and the other on his breakfast as they sat outside a small cafe, "what did you do on your date last night?"

She stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth and gave him a skeptical look. "You sure you want me to answer that?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Sighing, she ate the bite of omelet that had been on its way to her mouth, then laid down her fork. "Because you don't like Chris and you didn't want me to go out with him, remember? It seems a little odd for you to be interested in details now."

"I'm interested," he said simply, eyes on his waffles.

"Ok, if you say so." Leaning back in her chair, she took a sip of coffee, then directed a steady look at him as she began to describe her night. "He took me to this little Italian place called Bella Ragazza for dinner, and proceeded to show off by speaking to the waiter in Italian. Then -"

"Showing off?" he interrupted, wondering if that was what she thought of his language skills, too. "How do you know he wasn't just being polite to the waiter by speaking his language?"

"Because he kept looking at me out of the corner of his eye as he was talking to the guy, like he was trying to gauge my reaction," she said with a slight smile. "Not to mention that it was only after I mentioned to him how many languages you speak that he got the urge."

Bobby hadn't been expecting that one, and for a second, he just looked at her blankly. "Why were you telling him about how many languages I speak?"

Shrugging, she reached for her fork again and went to work on the remainder of her omelet, mumbling between bites, "He wanted to know what work was like for me. I couldn't explain that without explaining you."

" 'Explaining me'?"

"Well, as much as someone like you can be explained," she allowed, eyes twinkling with amusement at his uneasy reaction. "Don't worry; you know I wouldn't say anything bad about you."

"Hmm." Looking away from her but trying to disguise the fact that he was doing it, he leaned over and held out a piece of waffle to the dog. "C'mere, boy."

"Bobby," she said calmly, waiting for him to sit up again. "Are you interested in the dog, or are you interested in me?"

Clearing his throat self-consciously, he straightened up. "Sorry. Uh, what did you do after dinner?"

"Oh, we went back to his place and had wild, kinky sex."

His head snapped up and he stared at her. "What?"

"Well, that woke you up," she said, smirking. "Are you going to pay attention to me now?"

Realizing that she'd mentioned sex with Hammond only to shock him, he scowled. "I've been paying attention."

"Sure you have." She sighed. "After dinner, we went to the Met. He wanted to see an exhibit on Tibetan armor. It was ok."

"Just ok?"

"Well, I mean . . . Tibetan armor?" she said dubiously. "There were exhibits on Ancient Egyptian medicine and Indonesian textiles . . . and he wanted to see Tibetan armor?"

"Maybe he's a military buff," he said shrugging.

"Yeah, well," she said with a wry smile, "I think I'd even rather see those shapeless-blob paintings you like than a bunch of helmets and swords."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." She paused to eat the last bite of her breakfast, then shrugged. "At least the blobs are multicolored."

"But you're going to see him again?" he couldn't keep himself from asking. "Even though he's got bad taste in art?"

Leaning back in her chair, she glanced down at the dog, who was sitting by her foot and panting happily up at her. "I might. I mean, as dates go, he wasn't bad, and he had no way of knowing whether I was interested in old armor or not."

"Mmm," he murmured, doing his best to sound disinterested. "You usually have higher standards than that for your dates."

She kicked his shin playfully under the table. "Oh, give it up, Bobby. You got me to admit his date-planning skills aren't as good as his looks; content yourself with that."

Surprised by that, he smiled at her before he could remind himself to be nonchalant. "You're stubborn, Eames, you know that?"

"Yeah, I think you've mentioned that to me once or twice. Come on," she said, picking up the check the waiter had left on their table before Bobby could grab for it. "I'll get this, and then let's head back to my place."

"Your place?" he echoed, wondering, not for the first time since he woke up, why she was in no rush to get rid of him today.

"Well," she said, giving him a teasing look as she stood up, "unless you've got something better to do than hang out with me?"

"Well no, but . . ."

"Ok, then." She picked up her purse, gave him a pat on the cheek, and turned to head into the cafe. "You're good for relaxation. I'll meet you out front in a couple minutes."

"Uh, sure." As she disappeared into the restaurant, he looked down at the dog, who was pawing at his pant leg and whining. "Well, looks like we're stuck with each other for a while, little guy."

The dog dropped back down to all fours and started to gnaw on the cuff of Bobby's jeans.

Groaning, he stood up, unwrapping the dog's leash from his chair leg. "I don't know what she sees in you . . . but at least you're better than him."