Disclaimer: I do not own them.

A/N: Since I was so nice and updated as soon as I was done, rather than waiting for reviews, that means I should get a review for each chapter from you wonderfully spoiled readers, yes? ...Or, at least, one long one? Maybe? Pretty peas?

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Five:

May 24th, 1989

Dear Sara,

I know that you're probably finding this just as you're returning home and that there's every possibility I'm not even out of the Boston area yet, but I wanted to leave something behind for you.

I feel as though you think I've betrayed you, and I want you to know that this was never my intention. I felt that leaving was the only way to keep both of us from making a mistake that would have consequences more far-reaching than either of us are prepared to deal with at this point. I want you to know that I care about you deeply, and that I did not make this decision to hurt you.

I know I'm taking care of everything except food and gas, but I know that you're not working, and that your excess aid is meant to help with school-related things. If you need any help, please don't hesitate to ask. You should have found a thousand in this envelope—if not, be concerned, I left it in cash because I doubted that you would take it if I wrote out a check.

…I hope you have a good summer, and I hope you know that I can't wait to see you again, but on the whole it is far healthier for you if you forget about me—I'm too old for you, Sara, and we both know you deserve someone young and vital and attractive to occupy your time. Selfishly, I can hear you arguing with me even as I write this, and I hope it's not simple flattery, but it ought to be.

Take Care, Sara.

Grissom

May 31st, 1989

Grissom,

This is the fourth time I've attempted to write this letter. The three others are crumpled on the floor behind me, covered in tears and obscenities and pleadings, respectively. I can't decide whether I'm angry with you for leaving, but I try not to be because I know your reasons were absurdly noble.

Noble or not, it was still hurtful.

I refuse to acknowledge your foolish idea that I will meet someone else and I refuse to acknowledge that it's really what you want for me, because it isn't. You want to be with me and much I want to be with you—and I think we both know how fervently I desire such a thing. But I respect your concern and your decision… You just simply have to know that it will be a waiting game instead. I will not meet anyone. I have no desire to even try.

Boston isn't the same without you—I'm thinking of getting a job, just part time, on the weekends, simply because I'm bored. The library's selection on romance novels is surprisingly lacking for such a large city, and so I will need to purchase a good deal of my own to keep me entertained and not missing you quite so much. (Here, I know, is when you would get that strange smirk on your face and your eyes would dance mischievously, but no matter how I play it out in my mind, I can't predict whether you would provoke or admonish me. I know that my blush will give me away, as it does every time, because it is burning my cheeks as I pen this.)

I hope that Marina del Ray is good, and that your mother is good, and that… that you're happy. I find myself hoping that each and every day. …I'm going to send this letter now, before I lose my courage and crumple it up with the others.

I miss you.

Sara

June 6th, 1989

Dear Sara,

You certainly are braver in writing than in speech. I don't know whether to be delighted or alarmed—but simply that I might be delighted tells me that I've done the correct thing in leaving you. I'm still sorry, and I miss you too.

My mother is good. She seems excited to have me here, but her eyes tell me she knows that I'm not myself, which is disturbing. Once you've been away from home for enough years, you forget how well you mother actually knows you, I guess. When I think of telling her that I miss a seventeen year old student, this too firms my resolve.

In fact, the idea of explaining such a thing to my mother is about the only thing keeping me from jumping on a plane back to Boston.

I hope that you like whatever job you choose, though I hope you don't work too hard. You'll have to tell me about your romance novels. I too have been spending a good deal of time reading—any time I'm in a bookstore and pass the romance section I think of one of the very first things you ever told me—you liked to read romance novels in bubble baths. The thought of which, understandably, is overwhelming.

…Apparently I'm braver in writing as well. I hope that you're happy, Sara, and that Boston is treating you well. I imagine you spending days at the beach, soaked in sun and surf and engrossed in that literal pornography you like to call literature, and I feel an achy sort of longing to be there with you. I find myself walking aimlessly down the beaches here, the sun not bright enough, the waves not blue enough, and the entire scene to be fundamentally lacking.

…I miss you more than you can know.

Grissom

June 14th, 1989

Grissom,

Perhaps I will have to write a romance novel, because none of the ones I have found seem to satisfy the way a single afternoon has with you. I find myself curling up in your ants pajama pants in your bed, pretending I can still smell you on the sheets though by the now the smell has long since dissipated, and imagining my novel.

I'm thinking… a sexy, bookish entomology professor with eyes bluer than the oceans and salt and pepper curls that are enough to jump start puberty in preteens is exploring a beach in somewhere exotic and beautiful—Hawaii is too cliché. Somewhere in Australia, maybe, or the Caribbean. Maybe a remote virgin island.

He chances upon a much younger woman, who is by no means extraordinary, but for some reason, he befriends her. She's lounged on the beach, just her toes in the surf, her curls sprawled above her head on the white sand, and everything about them is warm.

There are days spent swimming and sailing and snorkeling, and nights of walking on the beach and visiting the local night life on the island… as friends, of course. He tells her all about how he needed to get away from the things he sees every day working as a CSI, and she tells him she needed to escape the entire world she'd known before.

And somehow, in looking to escape from everything, instead they find something they don't want to escape from…

…Well, anyway, that's how I imagine it. Maybe it's been done though, I don't know… Boston is still just boring without you. The job isn't bad—I clean an office building for a few hours Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. They already gave me a raise—saying nobody cleans the way I do. That would be my neuroticism showing, but then, you already know about that.

…I feel like there's so little to tell you, because there isn't anything here without you. I hope things are better in—No, that's a lie. I don't. I hope you're miserable without me too.

Yours,

Sara

June 23rd, 1989

Sara,

I liked the romance novel—you had me sitting on the beach here, imagining all of those scenarios. I knew exactly how the entomologist would pull the young girl to him to dance while exploring said-night life. And how both parties would drink a little too much and have a tough time not starting something… but up to that point they've been just friends, and they end up holding back. I picture the days in the surf, and the young girl in bikinis so scanty that it's a wonder they're not illegal, and the perfect shape of every inch of her.

I wonder why the author describes her as plain and the entomologist as striking. She is a young and rare beauty, and the man pale and bookish rather softer around the middle than most romance novels would call for. Still, I revel in the walks on the beach and the shared smiles that mean nothing and yet something, and I find myself wondering how their romance will come about.

Because he isn't her teacher, and she isn't his student, and god-willing, she's probably eighteen…

And then I get a grip on myself, and realize the impropriety of it all.

I'm glad that you like the job. I wish I had as much to occupy myself—although I've been volunteering at my mother's gallery. I wonder whether I've ever shown you anything she's painted—she's amazing with acrylics. I've kind of become an un-official guide, simply because I remember just about everything my mother has told me about each piece. I think I make some people uncomfortable, however—they don't appreciate me adding cultural references to the tour.

There was a piece that was blatantly sensual, although not downright sexual… and the couple I was guiding would probably have preferred I not give a background on what was 'normal' sexually speaking, across cultures. My mother finds it amusing. …You would like her a lot.

I miss you, Sara, each and every moment of every day.

Grissom

July 1st, 1989

Grissom,

I think you're far too nice to the young girl. And yes, in my story, she is eighteen. By the way, the author has seen the entomologist in only a towel—there is no softening around the middle, thank you very much. You said you wondered at the beginning of their relationship, and I struggle with that. In a lot of ways I think their tentative natures mean that a chaste kiss on one of their moonlight strolls with the waves crashing behind them and exotic insects singing from the surrounding vegetation is more likely… but then my mind plays with the idea of a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.

I see the dancing you described, and the alcohol making them braver, and their reluctance to leave each other at the end of the night, especially when they've spent hours pressing firmly together, sweating and touching and moving. I see one thing leading to another, and by the time they reach the bedroom and stop to assess whether they should or shouldn't, there's no real chance that they'll stop themselves.

I picture them seeing each other for the first time… but then the lights going out, so that the entire experience is sensory—touch, taste, sound and smell. He smells like aftershave and masculinity and she like tequila and strawberries. They taste salty and sweet, and feel soft and enticing—electricity in their fingertips as they explore one another. The sounds, however, are the best—whispered words of devotion, soft sounds of longing and bliss.

But although I play scenes like this out in my mind over and over, I think there's a certain appeal to the slow and steady approach. You were the one who told me the build-up was important, right?

They're shooting off fireworks on the beach on the fourth, so I'll probably go to that. Other than that, I don't have anything new going on… starting to think about school and going back. …Mostly about you coming back. Will you be doing anything exciting over the fourth? I hope you'll look at the fireworks and think of me.

Yours,

Sara

July 10th, 1989

Sara,

I watched fireworks on the fourth with my mother. I didn't receive your letter until afterwards, but I had thought of you anyway, so it's okay. I hope you enjoyed yourself. I've been thinking more and more about school as well… I'm supposed to be back in the office in the beginning of August—the 9th or 10th, I believe—so there's only about another month of this separation. I thought maybe I'd fly in a few days early and help you look for an apartment, and then I can help you move, after work, before school starts.

I'll let you know my flight information, when I have it, and if you don't mind, I was hoping you could pick me up from the airport? …I can't think of anything else I'd rather see as soon as I get there.

Will you keep your job during the school year? What classes are you taking? …Do you still wear the pajama pants and try to smell me in my bed?

I can't decide which outcome I like better for your couple—the fast is certainly enticing, but you were right about there being something in the slow-and-steady. It's deliberate, and it leaves lots of room for getting to know each other and thorough exploration… Maybe instead of forensics or physics, you should write trashy romance novels.

As long as you always write them in the bathtub—my bathtub, preferably—I think it would be a wonderful idea.

…Yeah, okay, the creepy professor needs to stop saying things like that. I miss you so much, Sar'-Bear. I'll see you soon.

Grissom

July 19th, 1989

Grissom,

No, I won't keep the job during the school year. My classes are all forensics classes—I have to say that your classes were rather tempting, but my advisor wanted me to take more intro-level courses first. I tried to explain, but then she didn't really understand. So you'll just have to teach me it all later, I guess.

I'm glad that you're going to be home soon—I know you see Vegas as home, but to me, Boston is where you belong—and I appreciate the help with apartment hunting and moving. I just hope that, in between all of that, we'll have some time just to be together.

I know that things are going to go back to normal when you get here—that I can't talk to you the way I write to you. I don't want you to think that I'm going to make things uncomfortable. As you've told me far too many times, I'm seventeen. I know that.

…But until you come back, you'll forgive me if I don't let go of the fantasy. I dream of endless days and nights on that beach, and of fulfillment like I've never known, tenderness like I've never known, pleasure like I've never known. And I dream of leaning back against you in a bathtub, full of heat and bubbles, running my hands beneath me to memorize the feel of you, and describing the next love scene from my imagination.

Come home soon,

Sara

July 28th, 1989

Sara,

You probably won't have a chance to write me back. My flight is on August 7th. I'll call you to give you more detailed flight information, if you're planning to pick me up.

…I hope the fantasies don't stop, even though I know I shouldn't say that. Because mine won't stop once I'm in Boston, even when I stop talking about them. Every night since I received your last letter, I've fallen asleep dreaming about that bathtub…

If I don't stop now, I'll cross a line we probably shouldn't cross so close to me coming home. I'm sorry it's so short, and I'll see you soon, my Sara.

Missing you,

Grissom