The story continues....

Warning: I don't know about anyone else, but this one makes me cry.

Crystalline Belief

What are you doing Bobby? He chastised himself silently as he sat at the busy little computer desk. He really shouldn't be doing this. She wouldn't have to know.

It was rude. It was a betrayal of trust. It was a blatant, undeniable invasion of privacy. And not just anyone's privacy, but Blake's. The one person he supposedly loved and respected. He shouldn't feel free to go through her things. Especially something as personal as the handwritten letter he'd just stumbled across.

He knew this in theory. But his instincts were telling him another story. The battle was tough, but when Blake's well-being was in the balance, his choice was clear, especially when he felt there was reason to be concerned.

She had stumbled into the kitchen and taken his mug from his hands, took a large gulp of the scalding hot coffee and turned around and gone right in to take a shower, leaving him on his own. He shook his head and smiled as he watched her walk away. He knew she wasn't much or a morning person, but she usually made the attempt of a mumbled 'good morning'. Maybe she wasn't feeling well, coming down with the cold that seemed to making the rounds downtown.

He'd taken his morning coffee into the living room with him as he went to grab a file to review before they left for One Police Plaza. Retrieving the file from the desk, his eyes inevitable wandered across items strewn across the desktop. Across the notes scribbled and posted around the edges of her laptop's monitor. Across the mug of hot chocolate from last night, that was now decidedly cold chocolate, sitting just out of harm's way, and then onto a collection of notepad sheets filled with Blake's artistically inclined handwriting. This must have been what she'd been working on last night. Writing a letter, to one of the three or four old friends with whom she still maintained written contact. In this day of nanosecond emails, instant messages and text messaging, it made him smile to know that she still kept these more personal traditions with at least a few old friends.

For the record, he hadn't intended to read any of them. He sat down, opened his binder, and started to pull out his own notes. But for a man who's spent literally countless hours of his life reading, it's difficult to simply 'turn off' the comprehension of words. When he reached over to take another sip of coffee, his eyes landed on the handwritten words again

'I know how hard it is to put things like this in the past.' That was the first phrase his gaze landed on, and it rather bluntly set the tone.

But the thing is, those words automatically suggested something private, and personal. Just as they also suggested that someone or something might be bothering her. Bothering her. Hurting her.

It was the pull of the latter that won, and his eyes began a rapid, superficial scan of the paper.

He shouldn't have been doing it. Especially when she, of all people, trusted him. He knew it. That's why he tried so hard to both read, and not read. He just wanted to make certain, no needed to make certain that everything was all right with Blake. He needed to put his mind at ease. He knew there would be repercussions if Blake found out, and he was willing to take the hit for what he was about to do. Trying to see the words without digesting them, until he found something that would truly set off an alarm.

And in the end, by the time he reached the second and third sheets, there were other phrases that forced their way into his comprehension.

'I know you were worried at the time.'

'I know you want me to be happy.'

'Some things just can't be the same any more.'

'That's when it hurts so much to keep going on.'

He was beginning to feel a bit ill. In theory, this could one of be many things. But, it also could be a letter of farewell, a Dear John letter. It was bordering dangerously close to that, and he couldn't keep the nagging doubt that he could be the potential recipient.

Was this why she'd been so busy the last couple of nights, and completely unwilling to discuss the details?

Was that why she'd been so glum this morning? Neither grogginess, nor impending sickness, but rather a more worrisome discontent.

His eyes began to speed read, though he was still reluctant to actually read - no longer to spare her privacy in case he was wrong, but to spare himself in case he was right. Relief, or at least the beginnings of it, came only when he latched onto one specific, and rather surprising, mention… of himself. 'I think Bobby, especially, would understand that.'

Finally able to breathe again, he took a breath, deep and controlled, chastising himself this time for jumping to conclusions. This letter was not for him. She wouldn't refer to him in the third person.

But that phrase, 'I think Bobby especially, would understand that.' That, in his opinion, validated his concern, and he flipped back to the first sheet, now intent on reading the letter outright. He would find out what was wrong, ascertain if he could be of any assistance, and make his apologies later. Opportunity was lost though, when from down the hall came the sound of a door latch opening, then the soft padding of bare feet. Blake appeared, wrapped in a thick bathrobe and toweling her hair dry. "That feels a little better," she sighed, though she still seemed rather tired.

Or sullen.

"Any luck?" She motioned towards his binder. "Solved your case yet?"

"Uh… no, not yet. It's still a bit of a … of a mystery." he replied. He quickly shuffled the sheets of papers back into their makeshift stack, and was doing his best not to glance at them until he could figure out the best way to raise the issue. "I think that I need to look at this from another angle. Maybe quite a few different angles."

He paused for a moment, then calmly added, "Especially since I'm beginning to question what I know so far."

Blake smirked, just somber enough not to be confused with a light-hearted response. "I don't think you should do that. Your 'gut' is usually right, Bobby."

That prompted a slight tilt of his head as he turned his gaze to her. "Blake," he began, rising from the chair. This had to be dealt with, and dealt with seriously. "Is there anyone … anything bothering you?"

"Anything that you think I would… or want me to 'especially understand'?"

Blake's head rose knowingly, ending in a brief nod of recognition. "You read the letter."

Was she angry? No, not really. That kind of surprised her. At the end of the day, she knew he always had her interests at heart.

"I'm sorry if I've offended you," he apologized. "But I think I have a right to know what's going on here, or at least deserve some sort of an explanation."

"Just like I should have the right to or deserve my privacy?" The pain in her voice, obvious.

Not anger. Disappointment maybe? He silently continued to watch her. And there came that drop in her demeanor again. Her affect was off. It wasn't guilt. Or anger. It certainly wasn't amusement. It seemed a weighty sadness now.

He watched as her eyes cast about the room, doing her best to keep her gaze from latching onto him. "It's to my parents," she finally replied.

Well that silenced Bobby. He remained rooted in place, as unsure of how to continue as he'd ever been about anything.

She walked over to the desk and reached down, collecting the papers; arranging them neatly and precisely on the desk, aligning the pages along the side of the desk. She hadn't tried to hide them. Why didn't I? Did I want Bobby to see them, to read them and then confront her, just as he had done? Indeed, after she'd finished writing those words last night, she barely remembered leaving the desk. Between the tears and the lateness of the hour, she'd just pushed the final product aside wondering if it had been worth the effort it had taken.

Sleep had helped. A little, at least.

Bobby watched as she walked the few steps over to the sofa. She sat and slowly drew her legs up, pulling them close to her chest, resting her chin on her upraised knees.

"This is what I've been working on, the last couple nights. It really isn't that big of a deal. I mean… I … I don't know why I didn't tell you. ... Probably because I was afraid you'd think it was ridiculous. Or childish. They've been gone so many years."

He finally moved, joining her on the sofa. He reached out and brought his hand up to caress her upturned cheek. When he spoke this time, his voice had lost all sense of that churning worry and suspicion that had been there moments earlier. Now, its timber had fallen nearly as far as his eyes.

"Missing your parents is never 'ridiculous'." Missing anyone who is lost to us is never childish." Bobby leaned down to catch her eye. He understood this from his own experience. If I'd only picked up on her mood sooner.

Her attention and gaze remained on the letter, Blake now doing the same thing Bobby had done earlier, looking it over, yet trying not to read too closely. It was simply a delaying tactic, a diversion. She knew that the minute she focused on him again, her tears would return.

"I should have told you, I know," she said. "I don't know why I turned this in to such a big secret. In a couple days it'll be the anniversary of the night they died. Thirty years," She blinked rapidly, her eyes welling already, just from the gentle touch of Bobby's hand upon hers. "You'd think I'd be over it by now, I thought I'd be fine. Just like every other year. I really did. And then …"

At last, she raised her head to face him. It was, in all honesty, simply the completion of her statement, and acknowledgment of the truth. Four days ago, it had been the thought of him that had tipped the scales. It was him that had made this anniversary different. For the first time in a very long time, as this yearly marker loomed, she was happy. Really and truly happy. He was largely responsible for that. And yet, suddenly she felt an overwhelming sadness descend upon her. Happy and sad in the same measure.

She wasn't looking over her shoulder. She wasn't frightened. She wasn't grieving. She wasn't alone. She was genuinely and completely in love. With a man who in many ways, wasn't so unlike herself.

Thoughts spun in her head, and the tears began to fall. Maybe, just maybe, because this year there was someone she trusted to catch them.

She moved into his arms, naturally and easily as they rose around her. Silently. A search for comfort; and that comfort freely given.

He whispered into her hair, sad, heartfelt whispers of "I'm sorry," and, "It'll be okay." A pillar of strength forming around her, while her own slipped away.

And she wept.

After so many years, it had suddenly become so easy to weep about this. Feeling truly safe now, in this place, with this man, she allowed herself these tears.

The slow start she'd had on the morning seemed long ago, the coffee machine having long since processed its caffeinated elixir, the brew now nearly as cold as last night's hot chocolate. Her hair had dried, and parts of her were just threatening to chill, dressed as she was in nothing more than her bathrobe.

Bobby had held her until her tears began to slow, offering all the warmth and comfort he could. His hand had stroked much of the dampness from her hair; his shirt absorbing the trails of wetness that traced her cheeks. He said little, waiting with only the occasional whisper while so much ingrained sorrow was cleansed from her system.

Minutes passed, threatening to sweep around into an hour, while the pair remained unmoving. His transgression of glancing at the letter was no longer an issue - to either of them - her pain trumping all. And when she spoke again, it was not to chastise him for the breach of her personal space. It was instead to bring him further into it.

"I was going to tell you everything, tonight. I was…" she spoke softly, almost as if to convince herself, as her head rested on his shoulder, reddened eyes rising toward his own. "I've felt horrible for keeping this to myself, for not saying why. I'm not even sure I know myself. I just had to get some things out of me, before I could even figure out up from down. I didn't want to risk it spilling over onto you."

He drew her tighter, his hand passing once again atop her head. "I would have understood. You must know that I would have understood."

"I do. I do." she agreed sadly, burrowing her face beneath his chin. It was safe there. The world was safe there. She was now regretting not having taken refuge here these last several days. But her healing had taken another route. "I just haven't been myself. I know. I spent the last two nights working on that letter."

Bobby nodded.

"... And so many memories, came rushing back," Blake's head adjusted on his shoulder. The grief was abating. "My parents had been so concerned about my brother that there were times when I felt left out. My dad used to argue, lecture me about 'winning' him back, to make him see the importance of family. Now I think that maybe it wasn't just my brother those words were meant for, he wanted me to understand as well. And yet, I've been here alone, all this time. Until now."

Again Bobby nodded, his hands sliding comfortingly across her back. He knew those thoughts. His entire life had been filled with 'what ifs'. But he'd learned to connect the dots, and see the destination as worth the journey. The value of asking the question. This brought him back to the question that he'd been asking himself since he'd met Blake Jamison. Was she intended to be his salvation? Their circumstances were very different, but her pain was so eerily similar to his. Was easing her pain, was the way to ease his own?

He assumed she had experienced similar thoughts, because as her arms curled tighter around his waist, she murmured the caveat. "Until now."

"Is that what you believed I, especially, would understand?" he queried softly, ending with a nestle of his chin to her temple.

She looked up again, this time in surprise. "You didn't read it, the letter," she concluded. "did you?"

"I ... I scanned it. I was … concerned. Worried about you."

She smiled again, hoping he hadn't jumped to any wrong conclusions, but knowing that in all likelihood, he probably had. Why else would he have confronted her? Another squeeze of his torso, just in case he had, as gentle reassurance.

"I also realized that sometimes, appreciation comes too late," she explained. "That made me think of you too. That's what I thought you'd probably understand that."

"That's why I decided to write the letter. To let them know that I finally understood. That I finally understand and appreciate what they'd been trying to do for my brother and me, when I couldn't then. The power of the written word. I thought it would be good for me, and I've spent the last two nights taking that advice to heart."

And there was the truth, the truth behind her secretive evenings. That she'd been here, embarking on such a heart-wrenching project. It made Bobby's heart ache too, and he cursed himself for not having searched her out, sooner. For not having pressed the issue. He loved her. Shouldn't he have known? Somehow?

"I had to tell them about you," she continued. "I always said that you'd have liked them. I think they would have liked you too. You're not that different, in some ways." Her hand rubbed his waist, a little life returning to her behavior, at the idea of Bobby in agreement with her father. "I would have loved for them to have met you. Talked to you. To know you."

Bobby took a deep breath ... as amazed as he was saddened.

"Oh, Blake," he soothed. "There is no need to explain, least of all for including my name in that letter. You must know I'm honored." His finger found her chin, coaxing her eyes back to his. "I respect the story of your parents. I always have. I ... wish I had known what you were going through these last few days. But there really is no need to explain yourself. I was wrong to have read what I did."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "None of this was a secret. I know I should have told you sooner, I did intend to, it's just ..."

He was already shaking his head, a finger moving to silence her. There was no need for apologies. He just wanted to help now.

And he did have an idea. "There is something we could do," he began, "once you've finished the letter. Something that might bring you some peace. Or at least closure."

"I am done with it," she sighed with a significant dose of sarcasm. "I can't take another night like last couple."

He wrapped her back into his embrace. No. No matter what she decided to do, tonight would not be another like the last. He would make certain of that.

"Then perhaps it needs to be delivered, Blake. Give them the words you've struggled so hard to find. Let them know, let them see, your caring and understanding."

A pause, while she questioned silently, then aloud, "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that we should put it to the fire," he replied quite sincerely. "I am suggesting that we burn it. It's a time-honored tradition. Countless letters to heaven have been carried up in clouds of smoke."

And if he was worried over her reaction, he needn't have been. She took it in stride. "Yeah, I've actually heard of that," Blake pondered. "Not sure I believe it though. Do you?"

A faint, cynical, "Hmph," from the man. "There are many things in this world that give me pause for thought. Many traditions that leave me shaking my head, and others that bring me hope. But yes, I admit this would be one of the latter." Propping his head atop hers. "And if the heavens were to listen to anyone, I believe they would listen to you. If it would bring you comfort, then perhaps it's a tradition worth following."

"Maybe," she agreed thoughtfully. "Yeah, maybe. I'll have to think about it."

That was all he asked. In truth, that was more than he asked and his hand returned to its gentle stroking of her hair.

"I should probably get dressed and get going," she finally decided, rolling those first inches off his chest. She stretched, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. It had been such an exhausting night, emotionally draining. And now again this morning. And she still had a long day ahead of her.

Bobby helped her to her feet, following closely behind. Watching. Making certain to his satisfaction that she was back on an even keel, before the real world could have another go at her. And even then, the instinct remained to shield her, now that he knew what she'd put herself through.

Blake shook her head, tugging at her bathrobe since she no longer had his close warmth. Sensing his unease, she began, "I can't miss work right now." She retrieved her hair towel from the back of the sofa and began folding it, fidgeting with it, absently between her hands. "I'll be all right," she assured him. Then a hesitation; and a breath. "Really, I will."

It was, to a large extent, a facade. Bobby knew it. He was well versed in facades of all manner and type. But there was nothing he could do unless she wanted him to, and so his head bowed in solemn acceptance. She was trying to recover on her own two feet, and he was trying to let her.

Blake nodded, glancing back toward the desk. Then to the letter, waiting patiently for its author's decision. It made her blink with new emotion, at the motivation to write it, at Bobby having read parts of it, and finally, at the idea of her parents somehow, someway learning her thoughts. Wondering if they might find some relief within it too.

She was tired. In so many ways. And though the tears were exhausted for the time being, it all... still... just... hurt.

"In a minute," she finally replied, drifting back into his arms. "In a minute. I'll be all right."

It was going to be a rough day. And a cold one according to the TV weatherman on last night's news.

Channel 4's weatherman had it right this time, and the evening turned even more bitterly cold once darkness had settled. It wasn't really a night to be outside, even if that just meant a quick drink before heading home, or staying to take part in a good old-fashioned pub quiz down the street. If two people were determined to spend the evening together, it was a time for huddling under blankets, not stepping out onto rooftops.

That's exactly what Bobby and Blake were doing though, standing atop the apartment building. The clock and its slowly measured passing of minutes and hours, the interviews and phone calls marking off Blake's progress through the day; while for Bobby, it had been short, frequent glances at the hour hand, followed by short frequent glances across the room, at Blake, as he had tracked the passing of the day closely. Now knowing the source of her unease had been even more stressful than having no idea at all. Bobby spent the day wondering not merely what Blake was doing, but rather, how.

Bobby had been waiting for her when she arrived back at the apartment. The events of their evening were set into motion with one, simple action on her part. No sooner had he embraced her, than she pulled an envelope from her purse. She'd laid it silently atop the book he'd been reading, and he'd known that her decision had been made.

She hadn't had to ask. Nor had he, in the end. She only had to wait a few nervous minutes while he gathered the necessary supplies. And then, beneath the gathering clouds, they'd made their way up onto the roof. Somewhere that no one would think to look for them - except maybe her parents, if they were lucky.

"For once, I'm happy that fire is your specialty," Blake quipped half-heartedly, while Bobby crouched over the flame he'd just brought to life in the bowl of an old barbecue. Wood and kindling, lit by a wooden match. As natural as possible, in a way that just seemed fitting.

Bobby rose, his own half-smile found within his voice. "An open flame," he noted. "I thought that seemed appropriate." He looked up at the ceiling of low clouds, the moon and a few stars just barely managing to peek through. "Hopefully with no interruptions."

Blake watched Bobby's words escape in warm, humid puffs of breath. Rising and dispersing in the night air, almost like the ashes and flecks of paper and ink that would soon follow. She even fancied she could follow the trail higher, up to through the night sky. "I hope it doesn't rain tonight," she commented, crossing her arms. "I don't think I could handle that. Too much like tears."

Yes, Blake had her own relationship with the rain. A sudden downpour and rain-slicked road had been contributing factors in her parent's death. "There will be no weeping, tonight," he assured. "Your parents would never weep over hearing from their daughter."

At that, Blake nodded. Thoughtfully. Almost ready to believe him. "It's sure cold though," she concluded. "Crisp. Like you can almost feel things better. More sharply. I wonder if it'll snow before we go back inside."

"Perhaps. Perfect, pure, crystals from heaven, lightly floating in the air?" His gaze met hers again. "Yes, I could see that."

And that brought some genuine hope to her smile.

"I believe the fire is ready. If you'd like to ..." his hand motioned toward the flame, completing his sentence. She nodded, and pulled the envelope from her coat pocket.

She hadn't even reread it, in all honesty. Let alone changed anything. She'd written it from her heart, and that was enough. Then in skimming it, Bobby's eyes had been the last gaze to touch it. That too seemed somehow fitting. She placed the envelope in the fire as carefully as the jumping flames would allow. All those words that had needed to come out for years. Now, they were disintegrating. Transforming. Floating away as the edges of the paper curled and burned back.

Her eyes closed, allowing her to focus on the surprisingly comforting warmth thrown off by such a small fire. The smell of the pine Bobby must have used in the kindling. Even the crackling, the fizzes, as the delicate paper burned.

And when she looked up again, she had every intention of slipping her arm within Bobby's to thank him for this. To thank him for suggesting it. To thank him for preparing it. To thank him for being here with her. What she found though, would have made even those praises of gratitude grossly inadequate.

Bobby had reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his own letter. A neatly folded piece of paper; very clean and white on the outside; merely folded in half. And quite pointedly, he sought her permission. "I… I wrote this too … for your parents as well. If I may?"

"You wrote to them too?" she asked, her voice barely registering above a whisper.

His head bowed; slowly and politely. "After what you said this morning, I thought that perhaps it is the conversation that rightfully should have been between us. Do you want to read it first... before I..." he stopped as he saw the negative shake of her head.

And now it was no longer merely the cold that stung Blake's eyes, but tears threatening anew. Not quite those of grief though, maybe a little of that hope Bobby had mentioned earlier, instead?

"If you'd rather I didn't... is it okay if I do this?"

She nodded her agreement, then bit her lip watching as he laid his letter gingerly atop the crumbling ashes of her own. He stepped back, his attention lingering on the flames. Willing the words upward? Just as she had been doing?

And then he turned, one hand reaching for her own. Silently inquiring if she was all right. Offering his comfort against the memories; his protection against the cold; and his love against anything else the world might throw at her. Doing exactly as his written word had just pledged.

"I'm ok," she reassured, taking his hand and stepping into his arms.

The orange flames crackled beside them, tendrils of smoke meandering slowly skyward. They'd get there eventually. They had a long way to travel.

And in return, from overhead, came the first snowflakes. They sailed through the fire's glow; those caught within the heat clinging to existence for a few precious seconds, before succumbing and melting to the earth.

Several landed in Bobby's hair, remaining crystalline and alert, as if deciding who, exactly, this man was. Several others found Blake's hair, seeping in almost immediately when touched by the warmth that surrounded her.

It was beautiful, glistening just inches before Blake's eyes as others settled into the fire. These were not tears, in no way were they tears. But perfect, pure, crystals from heaven.

More to come...