Title: Nameless

Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, this is not for profit, etc, etc…

-000-

Fall had just started, and the bum painted in the park while people around him gathered to look on. His style was one of rough realism. He painted landscapes, all of those he saw while traveling the country, until he arrived to D.C. somehow. He let people buy his paintings for a couple of bucks, and that way he afforded some food, the barest of hygienic luxuries (like a quick daily shower) and even, every once in a while, a night at a cheap motel – although generally he slept on a bench, or wherever the night caught him.

There were certain paintings he wouldn't sell, though. Those weren't landscapes, but portraits. All of them seemed to be of the same woman, and he seemed to have been painting them since always. Some of them were made with charcoal or whatever he could find, some of them were made of pencils he either bought or was given by random strangers he encountered. They were on display, so curious customers offered money for them, and when he politely refused, they asked him why he wouldn't want to sell them, when they were his best. The bum just averted his eyes. Then they usually asked him who was that woman, and he responded she was a dream he often had, which satisfied them enough. "That's a beautiful dream to have", someone said every now and then, and he nodded in agreement.

That day, however, one of the onlookers turned around for a second and saw the embodiment of what the homeless man drew: A lady standing by the other side of the sidewalk, in dark doll-like clothes and a black parasol, her skin pale, high boots and raven hair and her eyes a bright, wild green. The only thing missing was the look of unabashed joy from the bum's sketches, which was replaced by an appearance of quiet melancholy. The man was instantly alarmed: those had to be the sketches of a stalker.

"Those paintings aren't dreams! You've been stalking a woman! Everybody hold him up and wait for me!"

The bum yelled with the accent of a slight inebriation while being held by some of the people from the crowd. "I'm not a stalker! I haven't seen that woman in my life, I swear!" he cried out. The ones who weren't holding him just kept staring at the whole scene.

The man who alerted the others ran towards the lady and brought her to the park. "There's something you need to see," he assured the confused young woman, who followed him begrudgingly. "Look at those paintings", the man said, pointing towards the drawings. "This man has obviously been stalking you for a while now. Do you want us to call the cops?"

Everybody was stunned, alternating between looking at her and looking at the paintings. The resemblance was uncanny, down to the clothing. "I swear I haven't seen you in my life, lady, I'm not stalking you!" the bum said again, almost pleading, unable to take his eyes off of her in sheer awe.

As soon as she heard the author's voice, she looked up with her eyes open like plates, and immediately teared up. "Should we call the police?" an old woman asked her. She just shook her head no, she couldn't bring herself to speak.

"I'm sorry. I swear this is the first time I've seen you, I didn't mean to-"

"I've been looking for you for so long… do you know who I am?"

"I don't", the bum answered softly, as if hoping that what he just said wasn't true.

"I'm Abby", she answered back, trying to make him see through her, just as she saw through his unkempt beard and the disrepair of his clothes. "Come with me Gibbs, let's take these and go."

After picking up his works, Gibbs let her take his hand and followed her obediently to where her car was parked, as the crowd followed them with their gaze, wondering what the hell had just happened.