A/N: OK. Well, obviously, the first thing to say is that I own nothing. Sadly.
The second thing I have to say is that this chapter isn't as great as I wanted, but it gets better so stay with me. Promise. Also, I hate the ending of this chapter but I couldn't think of anything else.
I'm not sure exactly when Reid's dad left, but from the flashbacks in 'Revelations' he looks about 10, which would fit because in 'Memoriam' he says it's 17 years since he saw his dad, and in an episode close to that ('Masterpiece') he says he's 27. So...yeah. Also, I try to stay as true to what we're shown in the show, but sometimes I forget stuff so I get creative.
What sort of place does Reid live in? I don't know. Does anyone? I don't think so. So I based his flat on my aunty's flat.
This is gonna be a five-part story, and I promise that I will actually finish it. I've got the last two parts left to write.
Um, I'm still really a novice when it comes to fanfiction, and this is my first Criminal Minds fic, so reviews are seriously appreciated. Good reviews are great. Bad reviews are even better, so long as they contain the miracle that is constructive criticism. Reid's a hard character to pin down, I think, so feedback on characterisation is super-duper good. :D
All the songs that I'm using at the start of each chapter are NZ songs. They're all really good. You should definately look them up.
Finally, because I'm a Kiwi, I use British spelling. For me, 'Mom' is not a word. 'Mum' is. Just so you don't think I'm a bad speller or anything.
Right, I'll shut up now. :D

Part One

If you're the same boy I knew of
When those days slipped slowly by
We could meet up and see if
We could be on alright
- 'The Letter', Midnight Youth

Spencer Reid eased the door of his flat open slowly, taking care not to drop any of the files piled in his arms, or, more importantly, the cup of takeaway coffee in his hand. He nudged the door shut with his foot, then made his way over to the small round table in his kitchen. He dropped the files clumsily down on the table top, took a sip of his coffee and then put the cup down next to the precariously balanced pile of paper. He slung his satchel over the back of a chair, took his jacket off and hung it over the top. He picked his coffee up, grabbed the topmost file from the pile, cringed as the pile messily collapsed, and then made his way over to his couch. He opened the file, but after a long, boring day in the bullpen he had no desire to spend the evening reading more case files. Because even genius Dr. Reid gets sick of reading case files sometimes, he thought to himself with a grin as he imagined what Morgan would say if he had seen his colleague throw the file onto his coffee table with a sigh.

Spencer looked around the small lounge, searching for the morning's newspaper. Finding anything in his flat was typically a challenge – it was usually a mess. Everyone at work, especially Prentiss, considered him a neat freak, which he had always considered weird. His desk at work was fastidiously tidy, but that may have been just to keep up appearances. At home, Spencer was a bit of a slob. He did try to keep everything neat, but the amount of books he owned would put a small library to shame, and the fact that he kept most of his old case files added to the mess. He simply didn't have enough shelves, so stuff ended up in messy piles on the floor. It was organised though – he knew exactly where each book or old file was. Besides, as his mother slways said, books should be somewhere where they can be reached easily, not hidden away on shelves.

After skimming the top layer of paper which covered his table and shelves, Spencer realised that the morning's paper was not in his flat. It must currently be waiting in the mailbox, nestled amongst the junk mail which he chose to simply leave in there until the mailbox couldn't hold another catalogue. He didn't feel like going out to get the paper, but the alternative was spending a ridiculous amount of time looking for something to read which he hadn't already read and unwittingly memorised.

Coffee in hand, Spencer sighed as he heaved himself up from the couch, dropping the case file he'd abandoned on the kitchen table with the rest of them, where it would stay until he could be bothered to pile them up neatly – anywhere between a day and a week. He paused on his small porch and examined the pot plant sitting on the low brick wall. It had quite obviously passed onto the Great Greenhouse in the Sky. Garcia had given it to him when she'd seen how empty his porch was compared to those of his green-thumbed neighbours. He knew exactly what he should've done to keep the plant healthy…he'd just completely forgotten to do it. How could someone with an eidetic memory forget to water a pot plant? He asked himself. He quickly realised that he knew the answer to that question in exact scientific terms, but he shook the thought away. Geez, Spencer, do you ever turn off that huge brain of yours? No wonder people roll their eyes and walk away from you!

He opened his mailbox and surveyed the mass of flyers lying inside. The junk mail build-up was not yet critical – he could still open the mailbox without an avalanche of advertisements. He fished around, finally extracting the morning's newspaper, a bill from his insurance company, and a letter with an address written in handwriting which he didn't recognise – possibly a thank-you note from one of the families whose daughter they'd saved in their most recent case…but those normally went to Hotch through the Bureau…

Once he was back inside, Spencer threw the newspaper and unknown letter on the table and opened his insurance bill. He couldn't believe it – his life insurance had gone up, again. It was getting ridiculous. He knew that with his job, life insurance was going to be pricey, but he was also sure that no-one else on the team paid that much. Maybe the insurance company charged more if your recent past included being kidnapped, tortured, held hostage, drugged, shot at, infected with anthrax, and coming very close to death a couple of times – hell, he'd even actually died once. If it wasn't for the fact that he had to pay for his mother's care, he wouldn't have bothered with life insurance in the first place. Just be glad you're not a middle-aged, overweight smoker!

Spencer picked up the paper and was well into page 3 before he remembered the letter. He looked at the envelope, checking to see if there was a return address. There was, but there was no name and he didn't recognise the address. However, it was from someone who lived in Vegas, in a suburb not far from where he'd grown up. And old school friend, maybe? Not likely, Spencer. You didn't have any school friends, remember?

He ripped the envelope open. Inside was a long, handwritten letter, He read it in a matter of seconds, but he couldn't believe what was written there. He had to read it again, slowly, to make sure he wasn't imagining things.

Dear Spencer,

I've wanted to write you this letter for a long time now, because there's something that I really have to tell you. In hindsight, I should have told you when you came to see me, but then again, it wasn't really the right time. You were far too preoccupied – and angry – to have the conversation, and I wouldn't have wanted to say it with your mother there anyway.

Just listen to me. I'm babbling – procrastinating, more like. This is about the eighth letter I've written, you know, but I'm determined to post this one.

I want you to come and see me – stay with me, if you're willing to. But at least come to Nevada to visit me. Because there's someone – two someones - who I want you to meet.

I know I've left it a long time to tell you this, Spencer, but it's hard for me. I know when I left you and your mother, I left behind a lot of hard feelings, and I suppose that's why I've been so unwilling to write you this letter. But seeing you again made me realize that I want to know you; I want you to be a part of my life. I thought, after seeing you and talking to you, that maybe the air had been cleared enough for me to write this letter.

I'm procrastinating again. So here goes – Spencer, after I left, I moved on. It took awhile, but finally I made my mind up to stop living in the past and get on with life. I know that that could sound like an insult to you and your mother, but it isn't meant to be, so I hope that's not how you take it. Anyway, I met a woman named Deborah, who worked as an IT specialist for the company that I work for. After about two years, we got married and a year after that, we had a baby – a daughter named Chrissy. She's eight now, nearly nine, and she's your half-sister.

Spencer, I know that this will come as a surprise, and probably not a pleasant one. But I think that you deserve to know about my family – because Deborah and Chrissy are your family too. I really want you to come out to Las Vegas and visit, so that you can meet them. I would really like you to stay, but I can understand perfectly if you only want to come out for a day. I can understand if you don't want to come at all. But if you do, please write back to me and let me know. I'll send you a plane ticket. I'll pay. If you want to stay in a hotel, I'll pay for that too. From what I've heard, the government doesn't pay too well, even to its top FBI agents.

Don't take that the wrong way either.

I hope that you'll come and see me and meet my family. I really hope that you're not still too angry at me to do so. Even though you have a right to be angry. Either way, please let me know.

Dad.

Unbelievable. Unbelievable. His father had married and had a child without bothering to let him know? He read the letter a third time, although it was now lodged in his brain, a perfect facsimile imprinted on his retinas.

Anger coursed through his veins at every sentence. 'Left behind a lot of hard feelings'… You're damn right you did, leaving me to try and look after Mum like that… 'Deborah and Chrissy are your family too'… No, Deborah and Chrissy are two strangers that I've never met – you're hardly even my family, I've seen you once in 17 years… 'I can understand if you don't want to come at all'… Well I'd bloody well hope so; it's your own fault that I don't want anything to do with you!

Spencer screwed the letter up into a ball and threw it at the bin. His anger was clouding his vision and it prevented him from seeing the letter hit the wall three feet to the left of its target. He grabbed the newspaper violently from the table and sat on the couch, gulping the rest of his coffee down in one go. His anger increased as he realised that it was now stone-cold. He blamed his father for that too. He didn't care that it was childish and irrational – it made him feel slightly better, and it was easy.

***

The next morning, Spencer woke up tired. He'd only managed to get to sleep in the early hours of the morning. He'd spent most of the night trying to distract himself with books. He'd re-read the Lord of the Rings in its entirety – including all the appendixes – plus David Copperfield, plus most of Dr. Zhivago. He'd even got so desperate that he turned on the television – although the most interesting thing on had been the Magic Bullet infomercial. Even watching old Star Trek episodes on tape hadn't been able to distract him from thinking about his father's letter.

After he'd showered, dressed, and had breakfast, Spencer found the screwed-up letter, smoothed it out, folded it, and put it in his bag. Mentally, he stored the letter's words under the heading of 'To Be Taken Into Consideration.'

A/N: Just wanted to say, that's what my family do with our junk mail. And those three books are three of my favourites, plus they're the longest I could think of off the top of my head. Please review! I'll give you cyber vibes of love. Because that's all I have to offer.