A/N Killing time until my writer's block on my other story ends.
The leaves on the trees, now a stunning array of oranges, reds, and browns, blew gently in the October breeze. It lifted his hair upward over his lined forehead for a few moments before letting it settle. The park around him was quiet and the day was cold, a low 50°. He wrapped the thin black jacket tighter around him, waiting. She would soon approach the wrought iron park bench a mere twenty yards away. He waited in anticipation, masking himself in the shade of the trees near the walkway.
This was the third day he had come to watch her, and he knew her routine by heart. She would come jogging up to the bench, a water bottle secured to her hip, and use the bench to stretch her legs. The hair would be loosened abruptly from her ponytail to flow around her face. This was something he delighted in watching – the way she tossed it around a little before becoming satisfied. She would take her bottle and sit on the bench with it, taking a rest while sipping at it, recovering from the two mile jog she had just undertaken. He especially enjoyed watching the movements of her throat as she swallowed the water.
Five or ten minutes would pass while he watched her, in awe. All she was doing was sitting and refreshing her mouth, tongue, throat, and body and preparing for the run back. It was the simplest of things really, but she was like a drug for him and this was a fix. Sure, he got to work with Sara everyday, but this was different. He supposed it was like observing an insect in its natural habitat – something he was familiar with – and being amazed by the way it functioned in it.
The sound of her sneakers thumping the walkway pavement drew his attention back to the present. He once again took notice of the way her long legs moved as she ran. Today, she was wearing headphones; he could barely see the thin cord trailing from her ears to a pocket in her sweats. The tight green athletic shirt gave away every fold and curve of her upper body. Today it was covered with an orange track jacket bearing three blindingly white stripes down the arms.
She was facing the bench now, head down, foot on the bench, knee bent, stretching. He viewed her profile from the side as she did this. Her face was pink from the cold and glistened with sweat. Another small wind picked up, moving the clouds overhead at a faster pace, as if to say, "Get moving, I want the sun." He smiled at them before turning back to her.
Sara was sitting now, stretches completed, the water bottle next to her on the bench, silent and seemingly happy in her own little world. Her eyes scanned her surroundings – familiar, warm despite the chill, and somewhere she could relax. This was one of the few places anymore that brought her any kind of peace and it was the reason why she jogged here. It was the highlight of most of her days, as many of them were filled with anything but peace.
Never did she feel his presence nor did she look in his direction. Grissom never gave a thought as to what he would do if she ever did spy him, leaning awkwardly against one of the trees twenty yards to the right of her bench. He was too intrigued by her and her alone and all thought of anything else in the world at that moment was stored safely in the back of his mind.
Five minutes passed with Sara taking occasional sips at her water. It was cool and clean and felt good on her throat. The music flooding her ears was soft and soothing – not the best for running, of course, but it matched her peaceful mood perfectly. The wind today was too cold to be blowing over bare ears so she decided on the Sony CD player, slapping in a CD she had burned on her computer.
From afar, her admirer was thinking. I wonder what she's listening to. Classical? Soft rock? I wonder what she's thinking about. Why does she come here? Just for a place to go? I wonder if this place has some special meaning to her. Maybe I should…but the thought trailed off and he shook his head. No, that's a bad idea. I know full-well what I'm doing to her, that I'm slowly killing her inside. I'm killing her slowly, every single day, with every touch, every smile, every remark…she clings desperately to each one.
And I continue to let her die for my own selfish reasons. But does she know what she does to me? She's killing me, too. She's a drug that I can't seem to get enough of – that feeling that she leaves within me, tormenting my heart, eating away at my soul – worse than any physical drug. I know fixes are becoming uncontrollable. I need them more often and with more fervor. That's why I suppose I've begun following her. And I want more. She'd be willing to give me more…I think. But I'm afraid. I've always been afraid. An overdose of her, it could kill me. Besides, I don't think I could be what she needs. I'm just a sorry old man with nothing to offer.
She was up from the bench now, stretching again in preparation for the return run. He watched, eyes wide and thinking how graceful and amazing she appeared when she ran. Nothing could stop her – she could conquer brick walls if she had to, smashing through them while retaining her grace. His pride and love for her always grew in that moment, when she started out again on the walkway, legs pumping, sneakers thwapping the pavement, ponytail wagging behind her. It filled his heart with a warm, thick bubbling liquid and when it overflowed it coated his insides with that great warmth leaving him tingly all the way down to his toes. He watched her move away from him, legs flying back and forth, soles appearing and disappearing, until she was completely out of sight.
He moved to the bench and sat down, feeling light and airy. The warmth inside him was ebbing now, and he was content. He'd gotten his fix of her for the day and knew he would require another that night at work. Maybe he would try to talk to her then, give her some shred of hope…but he knew that it would just torment her more, like it always did. So, he decided if they were going to continue killing one another, at least, in the end, they would die together.