He didn't know the exact moment when she went from becoming his target to his obsession. Romantics might say it was that moment when he first looked into her eyes, when he first heard her speaking to him, smiling at him. They might even say that he fell then. Realist would say it was those eight weeks watching her go through her routine, along with the past few weeks that he had watch her take on a completely different routine. Jackson thought it was an unhealthy amount of both, combined with that moment of intimacy (if one could call it that) that they had on the plane, when she had showed him a part of her soul that he hadn't seen, right before all hell broke loose. That look that they exchanged when it was over, the look that said, "I understand." The look that finally established them as equals.

Maybe it was that. She was his equal, someone who could hurt him just as much as he hurt her; someone who was stronger now, who was more confident and sure of herself. When she smiled now, it was genuine. That was one thing that Jackson could give himself credit for, a boast to the ego she had partially shattered. He had torn her flimsy shell down and had built her into something stronger, something perfect (as perfect as any human can be). The Galatea to his Pygmalion.

After a stressful meeting between him and the other managers that left him wanting to throw a knife at someone, when one of his own dogs fucked up an assignment, or even when he couldn't sleep. It was during those times he found himself near her but not able to touch her. The sound of her voice, the way she walked, her face, would be a balm to his unsettled mind. A forbidden fruit made human that he could not reach, the stone that would not come alive. And he would sit there, either in a car outside or on the roof across, just watching, until her light went out. Every time, he said to himself that it would be that last, but he would always come back.

Why?

Perhaps he was crazy. That's it. He was probably fuckin' nuts, already passed the threshold of stalker. He knew that if she ever found out, it would probably give her more cause to write her own self-help book and he didn't want that. Who knows, maybe he actually cared about her and her mental and emotional state, which would be a wreck if he ever came back. Shit, he did, and he hated himself for caring. But that didn't stop it.

There was no harm, he told himself. He wasn't looking at her when she undressed, he wasn't following her around everywhere. He just needed to see her for a while, in her element, doing those small things that endeared her to him.

There he said it, he admitted it, he felt something for her. Something that had to do with a constricting of the chest and a pounding heart. Now he knew he was crazy. Who in their right mind would fall for someone who not only succeeded in beating the shit out of them but also causing them to fuck up their job? Jackson had an answer, a fool. An obsessed fool. Though like hell he would ever admit any of that to her

Then sometimes, when looking was not enough, he would come in, through the front door, silent as the dark. Of course, that was after a lengthy session of pros and cons (with the cons outweighing the pros). But nights like that, temptation proved too much and in no time at all, he would find himself through her front door, in her bedroom, and next to her bed. He would watch her breathe, her form rising and falling, stirring the tendrils of hair that fell over her face. Jackson would reach over, hesitate, and finally tuck those stray strands behind her ear, his hand lingering there, not daring to move farther. Times like that, he was tempted to touch her, really touch her, and see if her skin was as soft as he remembered.

But he always stops short of doing so, restricting himself to just her hair, in case by some cruel twist of fate, she wakes up. So, he would relish the feeling of being in the same room with her and slowly leave, taking one last look at her and telling himself that it would never happen again. Though in some small part of his mind, he knows that it's just a lie, it's never the last time. Not even close.

Maybe one of these days, he will actually touch her and maybe then, her skin will be warm and soft. Maybe one day, the two of them will no longer be enemies, but something closer than that. And maybe, pigs will fly.

Maybe…one of these days…

A/N:

I couldn't help myself. This is what happens to listening to Sarah McLachlan at 12 at night. I'm sorry for the lack of dialogue but when one's doing a vignette, that's the unfortunate side effect. And besides, we hardly get to see what's inside Jackson's mind. I hope he didn't come off as too OOC here. And if anyone's wondering, Pygmalion was a Greek sculptor who made a statue of his idea of an ideal woman and fell in love with it. I thought it was kind of fitting since Lisa became stronger because of Jackson and I think that kind of strength would appeal to him and his ego.

I may just continue this, I might not. Depends on how the input goes. Which means, please review and tell me what you think.