Same thing from before, I guess

John had amazing engineer skills when came to make book stacks and he took all the advantage he could of it to impress his costumers. And Mrs. Shelley was definitely looking impressed by his 1/10.000-scale replica of the Eiffel Tower, spanning five feet at its base and towering above the romantic section, with crappy teenager novels for the foundation, pseudo-50 Shades of Grey for the first platform, John Green for the second and classics pocket books for the superior part.

It was a thing of beauty, really, and John was feeling very proud when he stepped out of the ladders. Putting the hands on the hip, he stopped besides Mrs. Shelley and looked up his craftsmanship as a father would to his A+ kid. "Done."

The old woman hummed. "What a stunning work, John." There was a wrinkly smile to him, to which he beamed and made a full bow, taking an imaginary hat and placing above the heart.

"Well, many thanks, my lady. Your compliments are much appreciated."

"Still not as impressive as the Manhattan Bridge from Mr. Darcy shop, but pretty as well."

He gasped excessively loud, straightening up. Striking a hurt stance, he shot her his best betrayed-look. "That thing had been set up for ages! We can´t even know if was him who build it!"

Mrs. Shelley smiled over his dramatics, looking over the top of her golden spectacles with playful eyes. She was teasing him and they both knew. When he turned to respond, he finally noticed that she was holding two crappy teenager books (as he would call, since he read them all and knew they were crappy) from the same author John knew was her granddaughter favorite. Since was March, probably was for the girl birthday… that was a week from now, right? He couldn´t quite remember the exact date.

He decided to change strategic and simply huffed and took the books from the old lady, going to the counter with a little swirl. She laughed, following him. "You´re lucky I love your Thanksgiving cinnamon pie, woman." John said, scanning and packing the novels before taking three gift-wraps. "Green, blue or yellow?"

"Green. Angeline had taken some online test saying she is member from green clan or something like that? She is only wearing green now." Mrs. Shelley replied, with an amused frown and a confused shrug. John had to laugh.

"Well, is your fault! You are the one who gave her the Harry Potter complete box last year. Is only expected to a 12 old to become obsessed."

"Harry Potter?"

"The books with the wizard boy." When that didn´t seem to clarify to Mrs. Shelley, he made round signs with his fingers over his own glasses and as magic, the old woman expression cleared.

She had been skeptical about the books, mostly because she thought that no responsible parent would give rounds glasses to an eleven year old. Only bought after John explained that Harry was orphan and poor.

"Ooh, that one. I see-"

A suddenly loud bang! interrupted Mrs. Shelley followed by a pained yelp, then the sound as a thousand of things falling down and knocking over more other things. Both of them jumped, alarmed, and John only gave himself a second to look to Mrs. Shelley startled face before sprinting towards the loud noise, which was coincidentally where he was before.

He slid on the ground, his shoes screeching uncomfortably in the air while he turned the curve. Then he stopped and his stomach tied itself in knots when he spotted hundreds of books spread across the floor… exactly where his beautiful Eiffel Tower had been standing not two minutes ago.

When he finally finished after a three-hour work.

He frozen for a second, his brain stopping of registering everything, resolving to deny what his eyes were telling him to maintain his calm.

Didn´t work very well.

"John, what- oh! Oh my sweet Jesus, are okay?"

Mrs. Shelley voice snapped him back and he finally registered he young man fallen besides the ladder, dropped over of what remained of his piece of art. Disheveled, he was wearing black khaki pants and a rumpled beige sweater with a white shirt and tie underneath, having one of his feet and part of his leg stuck under the pile of books. Holding himself a novel with a knuckle-white force, the young man was staring horrified to the disaster until Mrs. Shelley speak.

He startled, instinctively pulling his leg. This proved to be a mistake when he let out an exclamation of pain, grabbing the knee. That prompted John forwards quickly, all thoughts about his Eiffel Tower put to side for the moment.

"Hey, hey, hey, don´t move." He kneeled beside the other man, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay? Where is hurting?"

The boy immediately nodded, a short shaky movement, still holding the knee with one hand and the book with the other. His face was a ghostly white and he was breathing quickly enough to John start to worry about a passed out in his arms when he replied, stuttering so fast John got lost after the five words. "T-this- I think I twisted my ankle when- when I fell- I-I´m sorry, I have a chronic clumsiness problem where sometimes I space out when- when focusing on something and I was looking for a Brazilian book from the 19th century and the Brazilian shelve was on the top of the bookcase and when I reached I-I took a step back too wide and- and I didn´t mean to- to bump in the ladder, I´m sorry, I´m sorry, I didn´t see it, I will help fix it, I promise, I just-".

"Wow, buddy!" John interrupted, laughing once, impressed with the amount of words spoken in the last two seconds. He turned to the other man and looked back to the hazel eyes, wide with anxiety with the guy panting as he had run a marathon. "It´s amazing how fast you can talk, but my ears aren´t that awesome. Slow down. Breath."

The man stared at him for a brief moment, as he was trying to grasp what he was saying, and then he suddenly seemed to understand. He nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line, and draw a shaky breath through the nose.

John smiled reassuring, waiting until the other´s breathing had calmed to a more normal level before squeezing one last time his shoulder, releasing. "That´s right, just breathe, okay? I will take these books off you."

Before turning to his ex-Eiffel Tower, he sent a meaningful look to Mrs. Shelley, who had approached silently and was hovering worriedly above the man. Seeing his expression, the old lady nodded and crouched besides the younger with her typical smile, exhaling that typical grandma vibe. "Now, you made yourself quite a mess, huh?" She said gently without accusation in the voice, already tidying up the lad clothes. "That is what a call the desire to a good read. Which one is this?"

The guy couldn´t be much younger than John himself is, but it still felt like she was talking with a kid. Not that it was unexpected, since Shelley did that with almost everyone younger than her (excluding John, of course, because she was mean like that). He hid a smile when he turned towards to the books on the floor, not missing the confused hazel eyes looking back to her. She pointed to the novel he was holding and the young man looked down and he seemed surprised for a second, as if he had forgotten he was holding something.

Then his expression brightened like a lamp and he launched into an excited lecture, even more quickly than the previous one.

"Is Dom Casmurro, a Brazilian novel published in 1899 written by Machado de Assis, a very renowned writer and poet, alongside novelist, journalist, columnist, playwright and literary critic. He was a very dedicated serial writer, you know, who wrote around six hundred chronicles, five collections of poems and sonnets, two hundred tales and nine novels that-"

John tried not to stare, but it was humanly impossible not to look when the other male interrupted himself abruptly, mouth still open to form the next words. He closed it, swallowing and awkwardly shifting in place, lowering his eyes embarrassed to his laps. Shelley looked back at John with a baffled expression and he could understand a little, although mostly of his feelings right now consisted on awe.

It was hard to find people who knew anything about foreigner literate that wasn´t European, even more on this level of details.

On this level of… enthusiasm.

John felt a small smile build up almost at its own, together with a good feeling that melted the little resentment still in the back of his head. Pushing the last books (careful with was most certainly a sprained ankle), he rose and offered his hand to the younger man. He raise his head, looking from him to his hand a few times before accepting with a slight hesitation, thin long fingers wrapping around his own.

When he pulled the man up steadied him firmly over one foot, John said. "Ten."

The other guy blinked to him, confused. "What?"

"Machado de Assis wrote ten novels, not nine." He pulled one of the man´s arms over his shoulder, taking easily almost all of his the weight. Which was not much, actually, he probably could have lifted him without trouble. He smiled to him. "Iaiá Garcia, 1878. It wasn´t one of his brightest works, so most ignore it in favor of others."

"I …" The guy looked stunned, looking a little like John´s nephew when he showed him the "coin in the ear" trick for the first time and John had to laugh.

He took him to the closest chair, gently lowering him. He kicked another chair closer, indicating with his hand to the other man place his foot over, which he did, hissing softly with the pain. Even with the shoes and socks on, was plain visible the swelling and when John finally managed to take off those, he had to whistle to the swollen foot. It was looking very painful.

"Don´t feel bad, hon." Shelley consoled the still slightly wide-eyed man, patting him on the shoulder while John went get ice from the small kitchen hidden behind the counter. "John´s memory for random book´s facts is almost inhumanly accurate in the worst of times-"

"I heard that!"

"- but you also have an amazing memory. Are you a fan from this writer?" The old woman continued as she hadn´t heard him, to which he puffed indignant, popping out ice cubes into a supermarket´s bag and wrapping in a cloth.

"I, I don´t know if I can be called a fan since I- I hadn´t read all of his works yet, but I do have an… an eidetic memory. Mostly related to things I read, though." Was the shy response, stumbling a little with the words.

John whistled, fishing the ice package quickly. "That´s impressive, man." He said as he returned to the store. He saw the younger male shrugging humbly to his compliment, looking a little embarrassed, before John handing the package, which he accepted with a grateful smile. "…thank you."

"Don´t mention."

He carefully put the ice over the swallow ankle, hissing softly. Shelley hummed sympathetically from where she was sitting beside the guy, patting him comfortingly in the shoulder before getting up. "I´m terribly sorry, but I have to get going if I want to be back at home when my daughter arrive." She sent an apologetic look to the other man.

He blinked, seeming a little startled. "D-don´t worry! I´m fine already, you, you can go. Thank you for the help."

"Oh, I didn´t do anything!" She smiled before turning to John, pinning him with serious eyes. "And you take care of your customer, you hear me young man?"

He made a flourished bow before taking her hand with both hands, kissing it. "Your wishes are my commands, my lady." John spoke, using his butchered version of a british accent that would probably offend an actual british.

She laughed, rolling her eyes at his ways and clapping him gently in the face. "Oh, John, if you tried half of this flirts with the women you meets, you would already be married."

"And lose the chance to serve you, milady Shelley? Never." He put is most serious face, successfully making her laugh even more. She shakes her head and turns to the younger man watching the intercalation quietly, waving before disappearing on the way to the cashier. John doesn´t bother following her, knowing she was going to leave the exact sum in the counter and take the books she wanted.

Instead, he sits where she was and look to the younger man, smiling friendly. "So."

He returns the gesture, although hesitant. He speak then, sounding shy and curiosity at the same time. "You´re… very nice with her."

"Hm?"

"With… with Mrs. Shelley, I mean." He clarifies and then quickly explain when he see John´s confused expression. "It´s just-… people usually don´t bother to… be nice with old people, I guess. Except the ones who work with them, or at least they should. I mean, of course they should be, I´m not saying that- that you shouldn´t be nice, but just-… we, we don´t usually see people being so nice with elders."

He finishes with his voice gradually failing until completely quieting, his face flushing aggressively and he averting his eyes to his foot. John scratches his the back of his neck laughing a little, feeling all of sudden very self-conscious about the way he act around his regulars.

"I guess? Technically, I work with elders, since almost all my costumers are old people from around here, as they are the only ones who doesn't know how to download a PDF or doesn't own an Ebook these days. But-." He pauses, and then shrug. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, they are nice people, so I try to be nice to them too."

The guy nods, looking back at him for a few moments before dropping his eyes again, rubbing nervous circus on his leg. They fell into silence for a moment.

John´s eyes wandered to the ridiculously large pile of books on his right and he grimaced, thinking about the work it would be to clean that mess. He hadn´t thought about the reverse process of building that thing when he decided to do it, and he probably-

"I´m sorry."

John blinked, looking to the other man who was also staring the stack of books with a miserable expression, shoulders hunched together. He raised his eyes and soon hazels orbits were staring back at him, flooded by guilty. "I-I will help build again." He said, managing to sound firm even stuttering a little.

John tilted his head and pointedly looked to the swollen ankle, raising his eyebrows. The other guy blushes and starts to babble nervously and John has to laugh, because that man was too easy to tease. "Don´t worry about that, honey. You destroyed my tower. My tower almost broke your leg. In my book, we are even."

He swallows nodding, still red as a tomato. In addition, he starts to give off such giant waves of discomfort, awkwardly shifting in place while trying to still the ice on his ankle, which is still looking horrible, that John feels a little guilty. He considers the other man briefly, trying to think of something to make him relax.

His eyes then fall to the book on the other´s lap and remembering what he said before, he asks. "Which ones you haven´t read yet?"

"What?"

Instead of answering, he pointed. The other man looked down then tilted his head, seeming to think. "This is the last one of the novels, but I have read only two hundred and thirty-four from his chronicles, seventy-eight of his tales and sixteen of his poems."

John stared. The complete innocence way the other one talked told him that he was totally serious with the numbers.

He faltered a little, thinking that maybe – just maybe – it wasn´t a Machado de Assis´s lover that he got here but actually a genius. It was kind of… intimidating.

However, that wasn´t excuse to the spectacularly low number of Assis´s poems reading. He shook his head, tsking humoredly. "Sixteen poems? Really?"

The guy blush deeps right when it started to fade, he seeming to understand from where John´s teasing was coming from (as from the fact that Assis wrote thousands of poems through his life). "I-it´s hard to find South America´s literature translated in the USA, even more poems."

John laughs to the other man´s almost pout and make a decision. He stands, clapping the hands once before resting one above his chest. "As an avid reader myself, I can´t let this continue. For your luck, you managed to find a library who has all of Machado de Assis´s works, in english and in portuguese. Stay put, mon cher, I will be right back."

Was almost automatic by now the little flourish bow he made before turning to the right aisle, instantly activating the "attendant serving customer" mode. But before he could take two steps, a though crossed his mind and he turned back to the other man, who was looking rather disconcerted. "I´m sorry, I don´t think I caught your name, sweetheart."

Something made him smile when he noticed weird look the guy gave him, feeling that maybe he wasn´t used to pet names. Or maybe not used from strangers, specially male ones. "S-… Spencer Reid."

John nodded and saluted. "John Harrison at your service, Spencer Reid."

He turned and stepped into the foreign aisle, looking for the dusted books he knew where there.