Title: Paint by Numbers
Characters: Bobby and Alex
Genre: Humor, Fluff, Ridiculousity
A/N: This is a challenge response in which the first and last lines were given (shown bolded). It's...uhm...silly? Yes, let's go with that. I did try to keep them in character, though how well it was managed remains to be seen.

Startled, Bobby very nearly fell off his ladder. He wobbled dangerously for a moment, almost losing his grip on the paint roller, before finally regaining his balance. "Uhm, what?"

Eames looked up at him, one hand on her hip, and a wry smirk on her face as she wagged her paint-brush in his direction. "Easy there, hot stuff. We'd have to at least go on a date before you'll need to worry about popping the question."

Eames wanted him to ask her on a date? What?

"What?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "For tomorrow, Bobby, remember? We're going to play 'newly-engaged yuppie couple,' so you can dress up and goof around while we pretend to get answers from the restaurant owner for the Emerson case? I need a ring if I'm going to do it right."

"Oh." His tone was unmistakably relieved, and she snorted in response. Feeling his face get hot, he hurriedly began painting again, sliding the roller, thick with wet white paint, against the ceiling plaster. "Oh, yeah, sure Eames. Of- of course."

"So don't forget that one of us needs to pick one up from props tomorrow."

Usually, arguments with Ron Carver and Danny Ross aside, Bobby thought very carefully before or he spoke. But sometimes he didn't.

It usually caused some trouble.

"But, but don't you have one?" Bobby blurted, and then could only wince at the ceiling in the wake of his thoughtless question. Why had he asked that? He never asked things like that. Everything concerning Joe was off limits for him, and it always had been.

There was a stark moment of silence, before Eames answered in a very careful tone, "No, actually."

Her reply washed something chilly clear through him, but he made sure not to let the movements of the roller pause for so much as a fraction of a second. "Oh." He didn't dare say anything else.

There was another stretch of quiet while both of them turned back to their painting, and Bobby tried very hard to read Eames's mind without looking at her. As had always been the case, he had no success. For all his profiling skills, Bobby had always felt that, when it came to his partner and her complicated brain, he might as well have been fishing in an empty pond.

Except for when she was angry, of course. That one was usually hard to misread.

As he dipped the roller back in the paint tray, still full of anxious pondering, his stomach suddenly grumbled with hunger.

"Jeeze. I guess we'd better feed that thing, huh?" Eames's voice was amused, and Bobby felt the tension across his shoulders ease in relieved response, even as his ears reddened in embarrassment.

"I wouldn't say no to some lunch."

"Well come on then, Michelangelo, let's go make sandwiches." She tossed her paintbrush down on the plastic sheet covering the floor of the hallway, and waited for him to clamber down from the ladder before making her way into her kitchen.

\\

"I don't know if I've said it yet, I but I really appreciate you doing this for me, Bobby," She told him a little while later, as they sat down at her table with their turkey sandwiches and potato chips. "That hallway's been looking like crap for a year now."

Bobby smiled at her over the rim of his Coke can. "It's no problem Eames, honestly. Actually it's…kind of fun."

"Fun? Giving up your Sunday to come paint my ceiling is fun?" Eames eyed him lightly for a moment. "Knowing you, you probably actually mean that, too." A smirk appeared. "You ought to be careful having that kind of attitude, Goren. My garage is starting to seem a little shabby these days…"

Bobby only raised his eyebrows noncommittally and took a bite of his sandwich. It wouldn't be wise to tell her that he only enjoyed it because it meant he got to spend time with her; she'd just make a sarcastic comment, and pretend to vomit. Again.

They fell into a comfortable silence while they ate, Bobby thinking that, firstly, Eames possibly made the best turkey sandwich he'd ever had and, secondly, that there really wasn't a better way than this to spend his Sunday, or any day, for that matter. Eames, for her part, was thinking-- well, who knew what Eames was thinking? He certainly never did, but whatever it was, it seemed to be mostly good thoughts, because she was smiling as she crunched away at her chips.

It was nice to be back to normal. Or closer, anyway. The whole scene then, the two of them happy and quiet and together doing nothing special made him feel-- well, unusually blessed, if he was willing to make an allowance for the turn of phrase.

"Hey Bobby?" She asked suddenly, and he paused mid-bite to tilt his head her way. But then she seemed to hesitate, biting her lip in a move he recognized, and shaking her head a little, suddenly self-conscious. "Ah, never mind. Let me know if you want another sandwich, okay?"

"Sure Eames, thanks." She nodded, eyes focused intently on her plate, but Bobby could see the pensive expression on her face, and for once, was pretty sure he understood. That was the look she always got when she asked him-- or wanted to-- about Frank, or Donny, or his life in general.

It was rather peculiar, to be honest. The defensive anger he expected was still there inside him, of course, waiting to pop out and slop rudeness and hurt feelings all over the place; but more prevalent was an odd sense of determination, and the thought that the only way to learn a new habit was to start one.

"Frank called me yesterday," he told her, trying for casual, picking at the breadcrumbs on his plate. He could see her whole body freeze out of the corner of his eye. "He's checked himself into a clinic. Somewhere upstate I guess. He sounded…sober."

"Well that's, that's good, Bobby. Really good." She sounded as unsure as he felt, and he suddenly wondered if they really never did this because they were both just so bad at it. "Isn't it?"

He smiled at her wanly, picking at the tab on his pop can. "We'll see, I guess. This'll be the tenth time through a program, that I know about, at least. But I guess…I guess maybe it's never too late to change. Maybe."

"Maybe," she allowed, sounding more hopeful about it than he did, though he got the feeling it wasn't entirely to do with Frank. "Have you…Bobby, have you--"

"Nothing about Donny, no. Frank hasn't heard from him in a long time, either. I think maybe that's what's made him want to get clean again. But to be honest, Eames--" He met her eyes, askance. "Well, it's been months. I figure, when I find him-- if I find him-- he won't be…" Alive was a much harder word to speak than he'd expected. "Well."

"You never know, Bobby," she answered, sounding like she knew it was the wrong thing to say, but what else could she say? And for once, all he felt was a quiet, humbling sort of gratitude. "And you know I--"

"I do know, Eames," he answered, reaching across the table to touch her wrist for just a second, looking her straight in the eye. "Thank you."

She flushed just a little, but smiled, and so did he.

They were almost finished eating before she spoke again. "It just wasn't Joe's style."

Feeling rather like he'd dozed off, and missed a key point in a lecture, Bobby blinked at her, to find her staring determinedly into her soda like it held the answers to a very big test. "The ring, I mean. He was never into that sort of thing. We'd just-- we'd been dating for so long before we got engaged, that it wasn't exactly a proposal. Not that I needed one, because I didn't. It was…it was just more of an agreement. And we were both in school, and paying all that money for a silly ring just seemed so…"

"Silly?"

She shot him an almost rueful look. "And even if it hadn't been that way, it still just… He got me a taser for one of our anniversaries once, did you know that?" Bobby did, but pretended like the news was new. "Told him I'd clock him if he got me a night stick for Christmas." He watched her expression morph back and forth between bittersweet and something he couldn't quite identify. She sighed. "It just wasn't his style."

Bobby thought about asking her what her style was, but the way she was holding her mouth pretty much answered the question for him. "Well, everybody's got a different way of doing it."

"He was a good man." Her reply seemed, on the surface, to be a little incongruous, but Bobby realized maybe they both still knew each other better than he'd thought.

"Of course he was, Eames." Was he really going to say it? "He had the sense to marry you." Apparently he was. Talk about new habits.

She looked at him a little queerly then, like maybe he'd turned into a stranger for half a second, but then the moment passed, and she was smirking. "I just thought I'd tell you, since you were curious about it, and I know how your brain likes to chew itself to pieces trying to figure that stuff out."

He smiled at his empty plate. "That's one way of putting it." And then they rose to clear the table and get back to painting.

\\

"You have paint in your hair," Eames told him casually, twenty minutes later, dipping her paintbrush in the yellow paint for covering the walls. He could tell from her tone that this was not a new development, and it had been cracking her up the whole time.

He brushed half-heartedly at his head, careful not to unbalance himself off the ladder. "How long has it been there?"

"Awhile."

"Before lunch?"

"Well…"

He shot her a falsely wounded look. "So you've been laughing at me this whole time then?"

The smile he got in answer was saccharine sweet. "No, see, I just wanted to see how long it would take you to realize it was in there. After all, you are supposed to be the brilliant observer. Aren't you?"

"Ouch."

"Take it like a man, Goren."

His answering grumble was unintelligible, and she laughed. Just a little huff of air, but still.

He looked at her then, mostly only able to see the top of her head from his position on the ladder, but he could tell, the way her ears were lifted, that she was grinning. Engrossed in her work, there wasn't a speck of paint on her, and her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she was grinning, and just like that, the words popped out of his mouth without bothering to consult beforehand with his brain.

"I have one you could wear."

Her gaze raised to his, nose crinkled in confusion. "Huh?"

Atop the ladder, Bobby once more scrabbled for purchase, of the figurative sort. "Uhm, uh well. I-- I was just thinking that I-- I have r-ring you could have. Wear. For tomorrow. I-- I think it would probably fit you."

Even the way Eames was holding her paintbrush, suspended and frozen three inches from the wall, was suddenly wary. "Okay…"

Bobby slipped down the ladder, not quite sure what was possessing him, and bounced a little on the balls of his feet. "Be right back." And then he darted through the hall back to the kitchen, where his leather binder sat resting atop the counter. He flipped it open, unzipped the tiny little pocket behind the back flap and fished out what he was looking for. Cradling it in his palm, having what he would later convince himself must have been an out of body experience, he turned and went back to Alex.

She was standing right where he left her, staring at him, dripping paint onto her shoes. "Uh, Eames." He motioned vaguely, and she looked down, quickly flicking the brush back down into a tray.

"Damn!" A sigh, and she lifted one foot for closer inspection. "Oh well. These are on their last leg anyway." She turned back to peer at him. "So…"

He took two steps to stop in front of her, uncurled his palm, and held it out before her. "See?"

The breath she took then was sharp, and from another woman, Bobby might've called it a gasp. With Alex he knew better. "Bobby--" Her eyes were wide as she looked down at the ring, a few strands dangling free from her ponytail, suddenly seeming oddly young and startled.

"I'm almost positive it'll fit you." Her eyes flashed back to his then, and Bobby suddenly realized how it must seem to her, him having an engagement ring in her size on hand for no apparent reason whatsoever. Well then. "I know it's a little fast, Eames, but--"

"What?" She squawked, and he grinned.

"Kidding, Eames. Kidding."

"You're not funny, Goren, you know that?" She griped, but her voice seemed a little weak, and he got the impression she wanted to rub at her heart. He grinned wider.

"You always remind me if I forget it, Eames." She rolled her eyes, her lips twitching. "It was my mother's. I just always keep it in my binder. Because…" He looked down at the little circle, the diamond atop it gleaming in the yellow hall-light. "I don't know, really. Just because, I guess." He glanced up at her. "You two are about the same size, so I think it will fit."

Were the same size. But he didn't bother correcting himself.

"It's beautiful, Bobby." Her expression had turned soft, and her smile rather more gentle than he was used to.

Strangely speechless, he nodded, then cleared his throat. "So, uh, anyway, I figure you could wear it tomorrow. You know, if you wanted to. Save one of us a trip down to props."

In answer, she tilted her head the tiniest bit to the left, bit her lip, and offered him her left hand.

He nearly dropped the ring. "Oh, uhm-- I, uh…yeah." Clumsy without knowing why, he took the ring between his fingers, grabbed her left hand gently in his right, and slid the silver circle home, nearly breathless at how damn good it looked, sitting there on her finger. A million thoughts he hadn't let himself consider in decades suddenly clambered through his brain. "S-see? A perfect fit."

She wasn't smiling, and her voice was maybe the tiniest bit unsteady when she answered "Yeah." And then she looked up at him, and the smile showed, all sunbeams, not even a hint of a smirk to it. "Perfect fit."

Bobby had never wanted to do something so badly in his life as he wanted to kiss Alex Eames in that moment.

"So anyway." He stepped away from her to give himself some room to breathe. "I uh, figure I should finish up on this second coat." And he was back up the ladder, roller in hand, before she'd even blinked.

"Um, Right. Should I take this off or--"

"Nah, no just leave it on. A little paint wont hurt it." He never looked away from the ceiling.

"Okay." And they went back to working in silence.

"Just so you know," Bobby said suddenly a few minutes later because he couldn't help himself. "That Is my style." He looked down at her, and she frowned back, confused. "The, the ring and everything. That…that's more my style. Just--"

"For future reference?" Hmm. He didn't know how to interpret that tone.

"Just as a point of interest." A pause, and then he went on congenially: "And as a general rule, I don't usually propose after the first date, in case you wondered."

"Oh no?"

"I always try to wait until at least the second. Although, for you, I guess I could make an excep-- Eames!-- " He yelped, wobbling on the ladder when she flicked paint at him, splattering his neck and face.

"Are you calling me easy, Goren?"

"Hey, you're the one who took the ring!" He sputtered, wiping at his face, yelping louder over her laughter when her next attack spattered across his shoes. "Hey! Don't get any paint on that!"

fin.

So, hope I didn't rot anyone's teeth with the sugar here. I'd love it if you'd drop me a review and tell me what you think. :) Thanks for reading.