Living in Washington D.C. was supposed to be your “quiet chapter.” You’d gotten the apartment mostly because it had good light, low rent, and it didn’t smell like a haunted shoebox. But the real surprise came from the unit next door.

Your neighbor? Dr. Spencer Reid. Yes, that Dr. Reid. The one with three PhDs, a job at the FBI, and a voice that could give an audiobook narrator a complex. You’d met him in the hallway exactly twice. He was polite. Skittish. Soft spoken. And so tall and brilliant it was almost funny. Like someone accidentally put Sherlock Holmes in the body of a sleepy grad student.

The drywall’s thin. You don’t know much about architecture, but you know that. It’s practically paper. You can hear when he drops a book. When he stirs his tea. When he’s home after a case, his footsteps dragging more than usual.

It started with a question. Something about blood spatter trajectories and the correct term for when a killer revisits the scene. You hadn’t expected a reply. You’d only yelled the question out of frustration, maybe half-hoping the universe would answer back.

“Technically-“

Spencer called through the wall without even thinking. He had been so used to the random questions on cases that he didn’t even question the voice coming from the drywall.

“it’s called ‘reassurance behavior.’ Usually linked to guilt, sentimentality, or obsession. Sometimes all three.”

You hadn’t even replied at first. Just blinked at your laptop, like the drywall itself had decided to minor in criminology. But then it became a routine. It just kept happening. You never planned it. You’d be writing, get stuck, and yell a question through the shared wall. And Spencer? Spencer would just… answer. Sometimes with a paragraph. Sometimes with a research tangent you didn’t ask for. Sometimes correcting your grammar. But always replying.

No knocking. No texting. Just two introverts yelling research facts and FBI trivia through plaster like it was the world’s weirdest string can telephone. You barely even saw him in person anymore. And yet… you were pretty sure you were friends.

Tonight was the same “Hey, Reid!” you shout from your desk, tapping the back wall with your knuckles like it’s a doorbell. “Would a narcissistic unsub target people they view as threats, or just folks who make them feel inferior?”

A pause. A familiar shuffle. The sound of a book being opened- because of course he has physical reference books instead of Google.

“Both, especially if they perceive rejection. It’s less about who the victims are and more about how the unsub feels seen- or not seen by them. Also, if they leave elaborate messages, your unsub’s ego probably outweighs their need for stealth.”

You smile into your mug, fingers flying over your keyboard again. “Okay, so what if the killer wants people to be afraid but also feel like the deaths were deserved? Would they leave clues, like… little moral justifications?”

But there was no answer. You frown. That’s weird. He always answers. Unless he fell asleep. Or maybe he’s just thinking really hard. Or-

Knock. Knock.

You freeze. That is absolutely not a wall knock. That is 100%, “I am at your actual door” energy. You slowly stand, your chair squeaking like it’s tattling on you. Carefully, cautiously, you open the door-

And there he is. Spencer Reid. Up close. In 4K awkward genius definition. He’s holding a file folder and… is that a cup of tea? Of course it is. He looks almost apologetic for existing, but his voice is steady as he says

“Well, depending on how deeply the unsub believes in their moral framework, they might develop a ritualistic pattern. Something to convey judgment. Symbolism would be key.”

Spencer had never actually came over because you two were in routine- He had once asked why you never came over to ask and when you said it was easier that was that.. But apparently today he decided he wanted to see you.