so much more than this

2 - doors

Spencer knew there was someone moving in next door—movers had been in and out of the apartment just a few days ago, and for the past two days banging, scraping, and off-key singing had been filtering on and off through the wall—but, in traditional anti-social Reid fashion, he had yet to meet them.

Rather than introduce himself as JJ had suggested—he had called her at the first sight of cardboard boxes—he had opened up the quantum chem textbook he had just ordered, propped up his trusty whiteboard, and went to work hacking through the problems. Although the textbook was noticeably thick, it only took him two days of muttering to himself and blackening his whiteboard with equations for him to get through the book.

By that time, Spencer's stable diet of coffee laced with cups upon cups of sugar was taking a toll on his body, and the FBI agent was aching for an actual meal. A meal that he preferably didn't have to cook, what with how furiously his hands were shaking. He felt like he had just come off of dilaudid again—okay, maybe not that bad, but it still smarted something terrible.

Spencer messily tucked in his shirt—a checkered yellow button up that he only had the dexterity to button a little more than halfway up—and donned one of his more comfortable sweater vests. He pushed a hand through his hair, tearing at the knots his fingers caught on, and made his way towards the front door.

Once he had pocketed his phone, wallet, and keys, Spencer bent down to pull his shoes onto his feet and made to move out the door. He turned to lock his door, fumbling a bit with his keys, and was promptly ran into.

Spencer wasn't exactly a built man, in fact he was notoriously lithe if one were to compare him to the other men on his team, but he was still an FBI agent, and it would take more than a shove to knock him over. Instead, he stumbled, his keys knocked from his hands but his door thankfully closed and locked.

"Oh mon dieu," a voice exclaimed from besides him, the man turning to see the source. He paused when he caught sight of the girl who had bumped into him. She was nearly a foot shorter than him—a little more than five foot as compared to his 6'1"—and had a head full of flaming red hair. Her dress seemed just as ragged as his—okay, she was definitely more put together than he was. "I'm so sorry, I was not looking where I was going."

And she was French, if the thick, rich accent she wore like some sort of designer coat was anything to go by.

It took Spencer a moment to realize that the lull in conversation was due to the lack of response on his part. A bright blush stained his cheeks as he quickly stuttered out a response. "It's fine. I was standing in the middle of the hallway, after all."

"I'm Manon, by the way," the woman greeted after taking a moment to giggle at his embarrassment. "I just moved in next door."

"Spencer, Spencer Reid," he answered, taking the proffered hand. Her fingers were slim, dwarfed by his own thin piano hands. "I hope this doesn't sound weird, but I was just heading out to get something to eat. Would you care to come with?"

Manon's mouth fell open into a small 'oh,' a hesitant blush forming on her cheeks as she moved to push a lock of her hair behind an ear. Monkey see, monkey do, Spencer tugged at a strand of his own hair that was hanging around his face.

"It's fine if you don't want to," Spencer quickly backtracked.

"No! No, it's fine," Manon grinned softly up at him. "I would love to go out to eat. I have been living on nothing but Cheetos for the last few days and definitely need something actually...substantial."

Spencer laughed lightly along with her. He wanted to cringe in disgust—JJ has forced more than one party sized bag on him whenever the two of them were forced to stay up late to rifle through evidence that had the slimmest possibility of leading to their unsub—but stopped himself when he realized the hypocrisy of him doing so. He had been consuming nothing but caffeine, after all.

"That's great! There's this café a few blocks over, probably not half as good as anything in France, but it has some great Scandinavian stuff that you would be crazy not to enjoy."

Manon paused, quirking an eyebrow as she looked up at Spencer. "How did you know I was from France?" She didn't look perturbed, just curious.

"Ah, sorry," Spencer rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "It was the accent. Did I assume wrong?"

"No, no," she assured, patting him on his arm as she did so, "You were right. I am from Macau, about 30 minutes north of Bordeaux."

"Cool," Spencer replied, his mind spinning as he worked to pull up all he knew of the town mentioned. Manon's laughter pulled him from his reverie, the girl obviously amused by his drifting. He flushed once again and nodded down the hall. "Sorry about that. Would you like to get going? That is, if you're up for it?"

Spencer hadn't meant it as a challenge, and while some might have taken it as one, he was grateful when Manon did not, the girl merely nodding in confirmation and waiting for him to lead the way.

"I would love to."