Chapter Text
A few stacks of books stood on the table next to him on top of a white tablecloth. Rossi grimaced as he shuffled the display around, trying to make it look as presentable as possible.
His book signing tour was going well and today he found himself in Las Vegas, the perfect place for an evening-well-spent after his talk. He just had to do said talk first.
Should he tell the anecdote about a sting op in a casino? Maybe not. Pissed off casino owners wouldn’t buy books. Maybe talk about how security teams had helped them in a casino op? Nope, that would give away tricks of the trade. Maybe he should just tell stories about other states.
The talk went as well as expected - a few hundred polite faces looking at him as he told reasonably amusing anecdotes and laughed politely. When it came time for the autographs about half the crowd stayed. He could manage that.
His hand hurt. He’d signed his name over a hundred times. He was finally finished.
“Excuse me?”
Rossi looked up. Then down.
A child was standing in front of him. A literal, tiny child.
“Mr Rossi. I’m sorry I don’t have a book for you to sign, but I found fifty cents on the sidewalk and got a postcard from the gift shop here if you could sign it for me please.”
Arguably this was the weirdest autograph David Rossi ever been asked for.
“What’s your name, kid. How old are you?”
“My name is Spencer Walter Reid. I’m five and a half years old. I wanted to get your autograph, but I read your books at the library and it is against the rules to deface library books, even if it is with the authors signature.”
He laughed. It actually surprised him when it happened, but hearing such eloquent language from such a small child was amusing. Precocious.
He took the postcard.
‘To Spencer, aged five. I hope you always read and continue to refuse to deface library books, David Rossi
***
Spencer climbed back into his bedroom through the broken window – it was permanently ajar – and placed his postcard under his mattress. He’d done it. He’d got David Rossi’s autograph. Then he pulled it out and found a pen.
Today I met David Rossi. He was nice. I found fifty cents on the sidewalk and used it to get this postcard for him to sign.
He put it back under his mattress: now he’d never forget about how he met his idol.
***
Two months later David Rossi sat in a cramped room at the back of a Barnes and Nobel in Arizona, his new book was being released in a few days’ time so this publicity tour was important.
The talk was the same as any other, but as the crowd of fans thinned, he saw a somewhat familiar face heading towards him, but this time the kid had a cast on his left arm.
“Spencer, right?”
The little boy’s face lit up and David knew he’d made the kids day. Probably made his month, in fact.
“You remembered!”
“Of course, kid, it’s not every day a five-and-a-half year old comes to my talks. Must be nearly 5 and three quarters now?”
“Yes sir!”
“Do you have something I can sign… besides your cast?”
“Yes sir… but just my bus ticket this time. I couldn’t get a post card. But now I’ll remember the trip.”
David nodded, signing the crumpled ticket with his name, then paused and waved a store assistant over, “Excuse me, do you sell postcards here?”
“We do. We have several historical sites, animals, geographical features…”
Rossi cut her off, “Spencer, go with the lady and buy a post card so I can sign it properly,” He pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the boy.
“I can’t, I mean, I can’t spend your money, it’s wrong.”
“Spencer, go get the post card. Please.”
Spencer bit his lip then nodded, returning a few minutes later with a postcard and a beaming smile.
“Keep the change, kid,” Rossi said as he accepted the postcard, signing it quickly.
‘To Spencer, nearly five-and-three-quarters, here’s to your continued efforts to not deface library books with the author’s signature. Best of luck to you, kid, you’re going places – but for now, hopefully back home and to bed. David Rossi.’
Spencer laughed as he read the postcard, tucking it securely into his bag, which Rossi quietly suspected was actually his mother’s handbag.
“And may I sign your cast? What happened?”
“An unsub…” Spencer mumbled, before correcting himself, “I was trying to… ride a bike. I didn’t succeed.”
“Maybe one day I’ll have a novel come out about that unsub… The Bicycle Breaks,” Rossi winked at Spencer, laughing with him as the kid’s face lit up with his giggles.
“It was an honour to see you again, sir. You speak very well. I think I’d have a sudden onset syncope spell if I was talking in front of that many people.”
“You get used to it, kiddo. Trust me, once you’ve interviewed a serial killer, talking to some strangers at a bookshop is easy.”
Spencer nodded sagely, then waved goodbye to Rossi as he headed out into the darkening street.
It wasn’t until later that evening that it occurred to Rossi that he hadn’t seen a parent with Spencer on either occasion.
***
Spencer let himself into the flat and slipped into his bedroom, putting his new postcard and bus ticket under the mattress. The mattress and old postcard were the only things that were the same – he now lived in a small apartment with his mother since they’d run from his father.
He also now had a stack of banknotes under his mattress – he’d ‘borrowed’ one of his father’s credit cards. He knew his father had several girlfriends as authorised users, so once or twice a month he went and withdrew small amounts of money, always travelling to different ATMs in different towns, never withdrawing more than $50 at a time. Today he’d been both brave and reckless. After he got his postcard signed, he’d withdrawn $100 from the ATM.
He knew he needed to be careful with money. His father had thrown a couple of $50s at him after his arm was broken, but he knew it wouldn’t cover the final bill (it had only just covered his first visit when he got the cast), and he knew he was going to have to pay in cash when he had the cast removed. He hadn’t wanted to waste money on a postcard – it was an unnecessary splurge getting a bus to the talk – but now David Rossi had paid for the card, he had to pay him back. Refusing to repay a debt to an FBI agent would be dangerous.
The next morning he ran to the store down the street and bought an envelope and stamp, asking to receive at least one dollar bill in his change. After walking to the library and finding a quiet corner, he pulled a mostly-clean piece of paper out of his pocket and wrote a short note.
‘Dear Mr David Rossi, thank you for loaning me the money for a postcard so I could get your autograph. Please find enclosed a dollar bill to reimburse you. I wish you success for the launch of your newest book. Once again, thank you. Spencer Walter Reid.’
Using a computer, he found the address to send Rossi fan-mail to. After a moment he frowned, wrote it onto a small piece of paper and went to the librarian to ask her help writing the address – his broken arm made writing hard and he wanted the letter to get to the right place.
***
David Rossi, after a long career in the FBI, was not easily shocked. But when a dollar bill fell out of an envelope followed by a carefully, if clumsily, written note, he was shocked. Reading the note, his heart broke for the scruffy child. He’d written such a polite, grown up letter, clearly struggling with writing with his broken arm.
‘Bless his heart’ he thought, propping the letter up on his mantlepiece. The paper was crumpled and had clearly been in the boy’s pocket, and it had what appeared to be coffee and ink stains across it as well as a few rips.
Rossi picked up his phone.
“Rossi, are you okay?” Aaron Hotchner’s voice on the other end of the line made him smile – no longer a rookie, now head of the unit.
“Aaron, hi. I have a favour to ask.”
“I’m not importing Whiskey across state lines for you, David, we’ve been over this.”
“Not that, Aaron. If you have time, can you, or someone else on the team, look into a Spencer Walter Reid? Five and three quarters. Lives in either Nevada or Arizona, I don’t know which.”
“Alright… why?”
“The kid has turned up to two of my recent signings, both times alone. The first time he brought a postcard for me to sign, this time he just had a bus ticket… and a plaster cast. I bought him a postcard. Kid has sent a letter through my fan-mail PO box with a dollar bill to reimburse me. Guess I’m just interested to know more, but don’t want to look like I’m stalking a little kid on my home computer.”
“I’ll get Garcia – I told you about her when we hired her – to look into him for you.”
“Thanks Aaron. You’re a good friend.”
“I know. And I’m still not getting the whiskey.”
Rossi laughed, hanging up and moving back over to the letter.
“You’re a funny little kid, Spencer Reid,” He muttered.