A/N: I would love to thank the wonderful, and beautiful ava leigh fitzgerald! Everyone go read what she writes! She's la ovely, lovely person. And without her this story would not be as good as it is.

Disclaimer: Eh ... don't wanna own them anyways. -shifty eyes-

I was insane, that had to be the only explanation

Or perhaps, it was the messy breakup I had experienced two weeks ago. Or perhaps just the monotony of the day, or maybe it was most likely just my week and a half long caffeine deprivation. Whatever it was, it led me into the insanity that made me do it. Whatever it was that made me do it, it caused insanity along the way.

This all starts out innocently enough. I had gone down to visit my mother in Connecticut and come back in time to get to work this afternoon. She had given me a magazine for the train ride home; you know those kinds of magazines that people buy for the glossy pictures and the hint of juicy gossip. I skimmed it, and then suddenly BAM! The idea exploded in my mind, and has then just sat there, coaxing me to follow its sweet voice.

The insanity beckons me, soothing me with its honey-thick voice, tampering with my head as I exit the subway. I scan the crowd and I spot my target. He's flying down the stairs, full speed, messenger bag flapping behind him, dangling to the side. He's kind of cute in a, "I'm a geek but adorable," kind of way.

Perfect.

I walk up to him quickly, partly shoved by people. My bag and my magazine are slung over my shoulder, and just as I approach him, I crush my lips into his, and for a split second they stay in contact. But the crowd pushes me away, and I feel myself break contact, and suddenly I'm running for dear life.

I let out a shallow breath I've been holding in since before the kiss.

I just kissed a stranger and liked it.

I stand around in the midst of people, smacking my gum in the silent way that I've been taught to do. My train arrives, and as the gust of wind blows my hair a little, I get shoved along towards the automatic doors.

But suddenly, my heart stays still and my head whirls, as my eyes lock onto something unexpected.

No.

Oh no.

Not good.

Not good at all.

Geek-boy was staring at me. I lower my head and try scurrying along without him seeing me. But it quickly backfires. And upon having someone stop right in front of me, I crash into large still mass, and my bag slips and falls behind me. I watch in horror, as everything; a copy of On the Road, a tube of chap stick, and my presentation notes for that following day, spills out of my bag with a clank, and spewing itself around in all directions.

"Shit," I mumble quietly, and bend down, trying, to scramble everything back into the profession-like black bag.

Reaching out to grab the last pen off the floor, I stuff it into my bag and grab the strap, preparing to hoist myself up. But standing behind my black lumpy bag are a pair of Converse. Which, miraculously, were attached to a pair of dark colored slacks.

I look up and for a moment, I think he smirks but I wouldn't know, what being embarrassed and all.

I grabbed my bulk of a bag, and run from the scene.

I throw my bag onto a seat and sat down next to it; bringing my feet up to my chest, I panic.

"Oh my god! He saw me!" I cry, burying my face into my knees. Quickly remembering that this was a public place, I raise my head and try flashing an innocent smile, to the slightly confused passengers of the subway. The innocence of my smile only serves to disturb them further and I sigh. Blowing a piece of hair out of my face, I congratulate myself on picking such a fine person to kiss, who was seemingly knowing my whereabouts, and trying to track me down as we speak.

There was no hope left for me. I would have to move to Australia and become part of the witness protection program. Have my named change, and send my mother frequent emails to know that I am fine, and that eventually Mr. Geek will stop trying to hunt me down.

I throw my head back against the window, I bite my lip, silently praying that my run ins with "geek-boy" wouldn't be so frequent.

"Here are my rules: what can be done with one substance must never be done with another. No two materials are alike. No two sites on earth are alike. No two buildings have the same purpose. The purpose, the site, the material determine the shape. Nothing can be reasonable or beautiful unless it's made by one central idea, and the idea sets every detail. A building is alive, lik-"

"Oof."

The train had come to a rushing, stop, and my head smashes against the side of the seat. My book flies to the side, and onto the floor. Upset of my dropped books, my lost part, and probably some bent pages; I bend over to pick it up and grumble a little, as I see that my assumption was correct and that the pages are a little bent towards the side. I open it to a different part.

It's too familiar to me. I know this book word for word. I smack my gum, and skim over the pages of my book quickly.

"He felt a sensual pleasure in giving orders to Roark; and he felt also a fury of resentment at Roark's passive compliance. He-"

I felt someone tap on my shoulder, and my book was taken from my hands, before I could even blink.

I hate interruptions especially when I'm reading.

My eyes swiftly look up to give the moron whole stole my book, my fairly infamous withering stare, but can't manage to muster it up. I'm face to face with a mess of dark hair, and brown eyes instead.

"Hello," he says brightly, taking a seat next to me.

My mouth stays agape, and I pictured myself looking like an idiot. At this moment I want to bury my face into my hands and sink into my humiliation with just a little bit of dignity; without this whole staring and idiotic gaping. It's like suddenly, in the worst possible moment, someone will come up to me and say, "Hey aren't you the girl that likes to stare at random people you've kissed?"

My tongue gets stuck in my mouth, and I continue to stare.

"Uh, heh, ah, he- Hello…" I manage to sputter out.

"So you like Any Rand?" he ask, a smile brightens his face at my inability to speak.

"Uh … uh … uh, not really. I-I used to, but … uh I don't anymore." That's smart Gilmore. That Yale education paid off big time.

He nods, and suddenly he leans sideways towards me slightly, and I catch a scent of something that seems all too familiar. Something I need to place my finger on, but can't really.

"Do you like fish?" he asks me.

I blink. "What?"

"Fish. Fountainhead, fountain, water, ocean, fish. The title makes me think of fish, and I decide I like them."

"Um …"

And then it dawns on me, on why I didn't pick someone a little less stranger to kiss.

I shrug a little. "Okay"

"If you could be any fish, which one would you be?"

"Um …" I ponder a little on this. No one's ever asked me this before. (If you could imagine) "A goldfish maybe …"

"Why?"

"Because they're simple." I smile a little. "And this one time, my mom bought me a goldfish, but we forgot to feed it for a week, so it creatively committed suicide with some pebbles on the bottom of the fishbowl."

He nodded. "Sounds like a happy fish."

"Well Fluffy could look more like Cindy Crawford than anyone else we know," I reply.

"Hey, if you were a pirate what kind of features would you have?" He's shooting questions a mile a minute. And the idea drops on me that he was trying to get back at me for kissing him, in my midst of insanity, with insane questions to counter back with. (Or maybe he likes pirates and fish, this I'm not sure of)

"An eye patch," I tell him.

He raises an eyebrow.

"What? My first answer was going to be a peg leg, but that didn't seem lady-like at all, so I chose an eye patch."

"No parrots or any sort of eerie battle scar?"

I crinkle my nose. "Gross. I hate scars."

His eyes brighten. "Really? I think scars are pretty cool."

I roll my eyes. It was seemingly true that all guys thought scars, or some sort of bodily harm was on some sort of level of cool.

"Of course you do …" I mutter.

"In fact …" he continues, his eyes still shining a bit. "I have one right here …"

He starts rolling up his sleeve, and I have half a mind not to close my eyes, half expecting to see some sort of angry mangled scar, but instead, there's a pale line on his elbow, that's only a few shades lighter than his actual skin.

I smirk. "Where'd you get that?"

"I was ambushed trying to take over Timbuktu."

I scoff. "Right and I'm the King of England."

"Do you feel like an old man?"

"Um … no."

"Then you can't be the King of England.," he points out.

I stick my tongue out at him, and he chuckles slightly at my childish behavior. I laugh and fall back into my seat. I shift my eyes to stare at him a little, and I see him smiling at me. I smile back, and we hold each other's gaze for a moment, before the train comes to another stop. I felt a bit of happiness, at not hitting my head against the seat this time.

"Um I have to go …"

"Oh, okay."

For a moment I could have sworn that I saw some sort of disappointment sweep past his eyes, but I shake it off quickly, grabbing my bag, leaving the train.

It's been three days since my last encounter with Geek-boy. I sigh, waiting desperately for something that seemed almost impossible.

I wait for my train, without the distraction of gum, or a magazine to entertain me. It's an actual avoidance, and a fragment of my (vain) hope, that he'd be rushing down the stairs. No such luck. I sit here alone, again. And stare at my shoes.

Ding Dong.

I give the tunnel one last discouraging look before I prepare myself to board the train as always.

I feel the twinge of ridicule pinch me in the arm, and tell me how ridiculous I've been for the past week. It strikes me almost instantly and it almost seems silly, and in a few weeks, I'm sure I'll be burying my head in my hands, laughing at how ridiculous I was. He was only a stranger; I had a growing attraction to someone I hardly knew. Even if isn't love. It was something. Just an attraction, a crush, or maybe just an excitement to find out his real name, and stop using all these silly nicknames.

Shaking my head, a small laugh escapes between my lips, and the train is coming to a shaky halt.

I stand, my hand clutching around the pole, and as the doors open, I tentatively let go. Bracing myself for the oncoming crowed. Scooping up my bag, I sling it over my shoulder, and quickly walk past, letting the hordes of people push me through the opening of the train.

Trying to maneuver my way around a small child and a mother, I turn to find my exit. But the strangest sensation irrupts, and I whip around as I feel someone tug on my hand, and spin me around. His deep brown eyes stare into mine for a moment, before he crushes his lips against my own. The rush of people pushes me around, making my hair fly around everywhere, shoving me here and there.

I pull away, and smile.

"What's your name?"

"Peter. Peter Petrelli."