Watcher

All of this was on display, if one took the time to watch...but then again, no one ever does.

-"Watch"

But maybe...maybe someone does, watch that is. In the dark shadows of the tree that grows next to the Kuroba residence, a perfect position for someone to stare up at the rooftop drenched in moonlight. To watch the show, so silently performed.

Maybe he's wearing an Inverness coat, deerstalker cap on his head and his ever faithful Watson by his side. Maybe he's fuming, over some trick the thief pulled on him, perhaps turning that oh so wondrous coat a bright, rich shade of hot pink with yellow polka dots. Or perhaps the thief had smiled at him, as he flew away on his white wing, the night's prize clutched so tightly in his hand.

Or maybe, maybe he's dressed more casually, in simple slacks and a collared shirt...a sports coat on to ward off the chill of fall. Instead of the pocket watch he once clung to so tightly, his wrist would be decorated by a simple gold watch, easy to check in the shadows, cellphone in his hand, making soft beeping sounds as he played some game or another, occasionally glancing up to watch his companion.

Or instead, perhaps he's wearing, as impossible as it may seem to some who know him (like the man on the roof), he's dressed in a pair of faded denim blue jeans and a worn t-shirt that has long seen better days for a band that was popular a couple decades before. He would be 'off-duty' of course, not even supposed to be in the country, let alone that shaded spot, but he couldn't miss another chance, to watch the moonlit play.

And maybe one day, he's no longer in the shade of the over-grown tree, watching from the shadows as the night played out before him. Maybe he's sitting on the rooftop, watching the sky, a to-go cup of hot coffee in his hand, another beside him, waiting for the white dressed man cavorting across the fence.

And perhaps, as the thief cautiously approaches, senses on high alert, the watcher lays back on the roof, staring at the tiny diamond like stars in the sky, counting each one aloud, allowing his silent performer a chance to go...or to stay.

Maybe, when the thief takes a breath, and takes a chance, sitting on the rooftop, still warm from the day's sun, carefully picking up the extra coffee and sniffing at it, the watcher will sit up, careful not to startle his companion, drawing a knee up to his chest, arm wrapped loosely around it. And they'll sit in silence, staring out at the night, waiting for it to calm and for the noises to quiet.

And then, just maybe, the thief will tell a story. A fairytale, filled with dashing young men and evil villains. Of a princess, trapped in a glass prison, and the white night chosen to save her. The story will of course, be a tragedy, filled with horrible loss and grieving families, but like all good fairytales, it will have a thread of hope, for no story cannot finish, until the author gives it that tiny kick, that leaves the readers hoping for a happy ending.

And maybe, when the thief holds the night's treasure up to the sky and it's nothing more then a shiny, shimmering gem...maybe he won't let go of it this time, maybe he'll smile, shrug and slip it away again, simply sitting and enjoying the night with the watcher.

For there will be other gems, and other nights, and one day, just maybe, as the sparkling babble is held up in the darkness, just before the red dawn and the return of normalcy, the watcher and the watched will be bathed in the red glow of the freed princess.

But until then, they still have the night.

Maybe...