(Okay, ladies and gents, here's how this story's gonna work. I'm going to write a bunch of one shots, one each day. They'll be from different POVs, with different pairings and genres. Nothing will be a continuation. This chapter's story ends with this chapter. Next chapter's story ends with next chapter. Capiche? There will be slash, het, maybe femslash, cussing, kissing, angst, fluff, fun, sadness, the usual. No smut since I'm not cool with writing that.)
Chapter One Warnings: Het, excessive pronouns, an uncertain genius' point of view
Reid wasn't waiting for her. He really, truly wasn't. He was just looking across the street, where her window happened to be.
It had all happened rather gradually. Apparently, his apartment had belonged to her best friend. She'd leave a message in big letters on her window for the friend. She hadn't known her friend had moved yet, so when he saw a URL on the window across the street he typed it in to the computer, curious. It had led to a private chat room, where she'd talked to him and he'd explained what had happened. They ended up talking about the symbolism in Disney movies until three in the morning. Which most people would think was creepy, but they thought it was fascinating.
The next morning, the window had an email address. He sent an email, not expecting a response, but he got one.
It kept going like that for weeks. Now, a month and a half later, she knew more about him than anyone on the team, and he knew her life story. She was a beautiful person, conversation flowing effortlessly and freely between them. She could talk about the French Revolution's impact on the arts just as easily as her favorite movie. She could entice him into contributing without statistics. He thought she was as close to perfect as anyone he knew. She was physically beautiful, too- they'd talked on Skype- and she didn't seem to mind his appearance. He wrote to his mother about her and she'd told him to take her out before some other man snapped her up, and he'd wanted to, he'd desperately wanted to. He wanted her.
There was only one problem.
She was in high school.
She was only fifteen, though mentally they were on the same level. And no matter how much he desired to spend the night talking to her in person, there were boundaries he could not cross. When he woke up with her name bitten between his teeth, he felt dirty, awful. Like the pedophiles he tracked at work, preying on the young and innocent. Technically, he would be classified as an ephebophile, as she was a teenager, not a child, but in the eyes of the law it was all the same.
The blue curtains across the street parted, and he saw her figure in the light. She smiled, blew him a kiss, taped a piece of paper to the window before leaving the frame.
Thursday night, Washington Theatre, 7:30 pm. Symphony. Row 21, seat 34. Wear a suit.
He leaned against the wall, staring hopelessly at his reflection in the mirror. He didn't know what he would do.