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A/N: Hope you enjoy! Thanks for the reviews! Let me know what you guys think of Grissom! :)

Oh! And I meant to do this forever ago, but Pati H (the one who reviewed Breathing), if you're reading this, I just wanted to thank you personally for the very, very kind review. I would have emailed you, but FF doesn't let you write emails in reviews, so there was just a blank spot where you tried to leave yours and this was the only way I could think to contact you. I just wanted you to know how much I appreciated it. Thanks!

Chapter Three:

I felt a little out of sorts, here in Boston. …To say that my leaving Minneapolis was difficult would be an understatement—the lesser reason was that, a month previous, my girlfriend had left the county.

Well, I mean, she'd just gotten her Masters in Biological Anthropology and would be spending the next year in Madagascar, studying dental adaptations in lemurs. So she hadn't left me, really, and we had hesitantly agreed to attempt to stay together. We were both practical people and had only been dating exclusively a few months before she left—neither of us under the disillusion that we were in love. But I liked her, certainly, and she felt the same. We both believed that it was a relationship that could go somewhere, if given the chance. And despite my absolute love for my job, there was a part of me that could be very happy traveling the globe in the pursuit of research and enlightenment. We weren't getting ahead of ourselves, and we had both agreed that there could be a no-fault break up in the intervening time. If one of us met someone and wanted to pursue it, we were free to—we would just give the courtesy of letting the other know, first.

The larger reason was much more bleak: A week after she left, my college roommate and best friend—only friend, really… the guys at the lab didn't count—had been killed in a freak accident—he was a coroner in Chicago still, and an abandoned building they were trying to take a body from had collapsed. True to form, he'd thrown himself over the young CSI he'd been on the scene with and quite probably saved her life, at the expense of his own.

Feeling suddenly very isolated, the invitation from Harvard had been almost a godsend and, when I'd approached Philip with it, he was nothing but supportive. The man was my mentor, but there was definitely more to the way he'd look at me when I'd come to him, clutching the letter in shaking, clammy hands—paternal, almost. And though I loved the man—not quite like a father, of course, but that level of respect and desire to emulate can't help but turn to love—we both knew that he couldn't help me.

I needed to get away from life as it was, but I felt old in Boston.

My colleagues were men and women twice by age, treating me with a deference I was unaccustomed to. I was revered, in the world of academia, mostly because I'd chosen a niche that was vastly under populated and been successful in it. It was not, as people assumed, because I was such a bright young prodigy. And working at Harvard—Harvard—I felt like I had to be a certain way… act a certain way.

Not that I'd ever really been young and reckless, but I was a man in my early thirties. I had the right to be a young professional, didn't I? I didn't want to eat lunch alone in my office—a tiny space set aside for visiting professors—instead of with the guys at the crime lab, whether I'd been close to them or not. But what was the alternative? Go for lunch and listen to my peers discuss their wives and children? Or, better yet, their prostate issues? As far as I was concerned, I didn't want to even consider the idea that I wouldn't be able to properly… function… for another fifty years, at least.

And living alone in a furnished apartment—sleeping in a bed that wasn't mine and using dishes that weren't mine and showering in a bathroom that wasn't mine—it wasn't much better than living out of a hotel. In my first week in Boston, before classes started, I had been about ready to pack up and go home… even if "home" was Marina del Ray and not my cozy little apartment in Minneapolis.

I just felt like I was too old to run home to my mom when life got tough and… and I'd already established that staying in Minnesota just emphasized my loneliness. So I stuck it out, and my first week of classes was… nice. I'd been a T.A. on my share of occasions and I was no stranger to guest lecturing, so I found it rather easy to slip into being a teacher… especially since most of my classes were intro levels that I could have done in my sleep. By the time I'd gotten through my first week and gotten a feel for things, I was no longer panicking. I had settled in a bit, started classes… Although there was a girl—a very young girl—in one of my classes who… unsettled me.

It's the damndest thing—I'm usually good at reading people, but she's… harder.

My first impression of her was slight irritation—she'd flinched upon seeing a box containing crime scene photos and while I knew that this was the natural response for someone not used to seeing carnage on a daily basis, I had also spent most of the day dealing with young girls squirming and squealing at my specimens. It got old. If you were in a science class, you should expect to encounter things dealing with the science in question… right?

But no—it's a lie that that was my first impression. My very first was that this girl had sex legs. The kind of legs you take a glance at and, without conscious intention, immediately picture wrapped around you. Of course, I pushed that though aside… though she later said she was a junior, I was having a hard time believing she was twenty. She didn't look twenty.

She was early, too, which implied that she would be a good student… and though she inspected all but the photos with an interest and intent that told me before she did that she was a science major of some kind, she didn't seem to be paying attention. Even as she was saying that she was a junior and a theoretic physics major, she was speaking like an airhead. When she added that she was from California originally, I immediately thought she must have divided her time in high school between a prep school and the beach and that she was here because her family had some kind of influence. I wanted to write her off, but I couldn't.

In large part because the next class period she sauntered in, early again, exuding a kind of confidence that you would expect from that girl in high school—the girl who never noticed me, when I was in high school …The girl I was certain she had been. Small but perfectly perky breasts bouncing slightly and, oh fucking hell, no bra, and the tightest jeans I had ever seen. She looked like she'd been sewn into them. I focused on my upcoming lecture, sitting behind my desk, trying to talk down my erection with only just enough success to not embarrass myself by the time class started. And I intentionally avoided her without trying to seem like I was doing so, just because I knew that if I allowed my gaze to linger on her again, I would definitely be… inappropriate. Younger than the average professor I might be, but lusting after a student was still a big no-no.

And she was at least ten years my junior, if not more. …Probably more.

It was a non-issue, really. I mean, did I really need a read on the girl? Dumb stereotype or dedicated science nerd, she would still be graded based on what she turned in, and it wasn't like my lusting would ever amount to anything. That went without saying—it never crossed my mind that something might occur… just that I would be horrified to be caught eyeing the young beauty when I was supposed to be this brilliant scientist and asset to the University.

I called Allison on Saturday and that helped me get my head back on straight—because she was a woman who had me in a constant state of awe. She was smart and dedicated and professional. She was a woman among women, and I still couldn't figure out what had interested her in me. Regardless, talking to her had helped. She was really excited about her work, of course, and I was a little envious of that—I wasn't far enough into any of my classes to be too excited about them—but I was hopeful that things would turn around. I even subtly, in my own embarrassed way, suggested we… well, that we…

When she'd called me from hotels, on her layovers, she'd… introduced me to phone sex. And I thought… Well, that that would be good for both of us, you know, to relieve some tension. But, of course, she didn't have a lot of privacy so…

It wasn't really a rejection, per se, although it did sting a little… She couldn't even attempt to be quiet?

Still, though, talking to her reminded me why I was here in the first place—because, right now, there wasn't anything for me in Minneapolis. I was here, in Boston, to get a grip back on my life—and on my psyche—not to eye the young coeds. So I went to class on Monday entirely unconcerned about the young girl—Sara Sidle. Sure, she was bound to be a little distracting, but what beautiful twenty year old in tight clothing wasn't? I wasn't worried. If there was anything I was good at, it was restraint.

And then she strolled in looking like she was starring in a porn specifically designed to exploit the recent fantasies I'd been quashing and the guilt that came with them—she might as well have had her hair in pigtails and been sucking on a lollipop. Tiny white shirt, plaid skirt that only barely covered her, knee-high socks… the only thing missing was the tie and the come hither stare.

No, never mind—just the tie.

And she stayed late to ask questions. As if it hadn't taken every ounce of my self control to not stare at her throughout the hour. They were intelligent, well thought-out questions, too. Ones that deserved my full attention. It is a testament to my mother, who raised a gentleman she'll have you know, that I was able to politely answer her… though I knew I could have been more thorough and really stoked the flames of her… curiosity.

Jesus Christ.

Although, this was also the day I became a little more wary of my complex, unreadable student. …Because when she ran out of questions, mostly because I was unable to answer fully to give her something to build off of, she seemed disappointed. When my eyes, which so desperately wanted to stray lower than her face, held her gaze, she seemed to move her body in a way that urged them lower instead. …Which made me question the outfit altogether. She had to've known what she looked like when she left the house this morning.

It was a crazy thought—and a dangerous one—but it occurred to me that she might be seeking out my interest. My absolutely inappropriate, completely unethical interest. But why? For a grade? That's doesn't make sense—her questions alone told me that she didn't need to tempt me in order to secure any grade she wanted in this class. …She didn't fit the stereotype—any of them—and I found myself replaying our limited interactions around in my head, again and again, trying to decipher her intentions. …Or, at least, that was my excuse for constantly thinking about her.

I was relieved when Wednesday rolled around and she seemed to be back to her normal, tight-fitting, too-young-for-this-old-geezer, hot as hell clothing choices (they were better than the fantasy-inducing school girl ensemble had been), and told myself that it really was foolish to sit in silence with the girl for twenty minutes every day before class. So when she appeared, as expected, I forced myself to approach the situation lightly, and I teased her. "One of these days you'll just be on time for class and I'll already be filing a missing person's report."

She responded that she would probably always be early—she had a long break before this class and got anxious waiting for it. I smiled softly, pleased she was enjoying the class but not wanting to say so, exactly… It felt so… teacher-y. I had liked the way she responded—the unexpected light in her eyes—when I teased her. I wanted to keep that. My eyes flickered to my notes as I tried to come up with a clever response or something… something… better, but she was too fast for me. Before I knew it, we were discussing Christmas in California and stringing lights on sailboats and there was a moment…

Indescribable.

For the briefest of moments, her smile twisted into a look that was almost pained, though her lips stayed curled up, and I had the incredibly shocking feeling that this was the first moment I had really seen this girl. I had thought about her consistently and more and more frequently with each passing class… I'd analyzed and speculated and… it was for nothing. …Or, for very little, I supposed, because the existence of a mask was telling in itself, even if you didn't know what was beneath it. The glimpse, however, shook me deeply. I couldn't tell you what I saw, only that it was... haunting.

I stopped our conversation then, and made the excuse that I had an appointment after class that was unavoidable, simply because I now expected her to stay with questions and I couldn't do it, today. Having to sit and discuss the basics of a science with a school girl perched on the edge of my desk, thighs precariously close to me and my eye level, had been hell… having to do the same with that kind of vulnerability, sitting open and ominous and unspeakable, between us…

It was more than I can handle, and I took my out gracelessly.

So the next Friday, when she came in clearly hung over, I couldn't decide how to feel about it. Guilty? Disappointed? Sympathetic? Did this prove or disprove any of my theories and, if so, which one? I could smell the tequila coming from her pores, see the defiance in her eyes and the way she turned her head away, like she was daring me to point out that she might feel embarrassed or ashamed. I didn't want to stay after class and let this Sara—this prickly, difficult, less confident Sara—question me any more than I had wanted it when she was clad in a sex outfit or when she had let her mask slip… but today, I felt like she might need the company, even if it was the superficial kind, detached and professional and academic.

She didn't stay, however, and I didn't bother trying to lie to myself about why I was thinking about her.

I was worried about her.