Mindfully Criminal

Your anger is a shield against the betrayal ravaging your entire being, preventing you from shattering to pieces. You wrap it around yourself, tucking every ounce of despair around your person, honing every lie you were told into a spear for protection.

A weapon to use against those you had once trusted with your life.

When you were called into the conference room, this is the last thing you had expected to hear.

You don’t speak as they give the team the news. You look at Hotch, Agent Hotchner, and meet his stare straight on. You let him see the fire, the pain, the anger. You watch at he flinches the tiniest amount, can read the apology in his expression. But you ignore it, just as he ignored your devastation for the last 224 days. Your eyes flick to where JJ, Jennifer, stands with him, and your heart hardens further.

It’s been just over seven months since you saw them.

Seven entire months since you saw Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid.

Emily had been killed by Doyle, but Spencer, your Spencer, he had been collateral damage. He’d figured out what Emily was hiding, had forced her to include him in her plans. He thought he could save her.

He had failed.

In a single night, you lost your two most important people. Your best friend, and the love of your life.

Emily had died after hours on the operating table. Spencer hadn’t even made it that far.

Seven months, one week, and four days since you had last seen his face.

Six months, three weeks and five days since you discovered you were carrying his child.

You had gone directly to Hotch Agent Hotchner’s office from the doctor’s office, telling him that you needed him to tell you the truth, your doubt eating you up, the evidence weighing against his previous words. To tell you right then and there if Spencer was still alive, as it wasn’t just about your grief anymore.

You had shown him the ultrasound, desperately fighting back tears. He hadn’t even let you present the evidence you had against him. He had looked you dead in the eye and lied. Had the gall to give you a look of pity as he willingly shattered your trust. His insistence hadn’t deterred you though.

You tried JJ Jennifer next, telling her she had one chance to tell you the truth. One.

You brought up the evidence in full, no longer hiding the tears.

They hadn’t let you see his body.

Had refused to let you say goodbye - only she had seen both Emily and Spencer. Even with the overwhelming grief, you’d been suspicious, even more so when you’d snuck into the hospital morgue, flashing your badge at the orderly and unable to find either of your teammates.

Then there was the secrecy, the looks between Agent Hotchner and Jennifer that only increased when she came back to the team.

The closed caskets, even though you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Emily wanted to be cremated and Spencer wanted his body to be donated to science after his mother said her goodbyes.

Then the final straw was the fact that you had been taken off the list of allowed visitors to his mother, not even allowed to tell her you were having her only grandchild. The facility couldn’t even tell you how you were removed, just that you were. At least their confusion matched your own.

But Agent Hotchner and Jennifer had both apologized, telling you how sorry they were, but that Spencer was dead. That you needed to accept it and move on. He was not coming back.

But now, 225 days later, standing in the conference room, he was there, right alongside Emily.

Your best friend, and the love of your life. Back from the grave you had buried them in.

Derek seems to be the only one who shares your sense of betrayal, and you watch as the rest of the team turns to hug the two who had disappeared, smiling as if they had already forgotten the devastation of the cold dirt and the always silent gravestones.

You don’t even realize that you had stood from the round table until Spencer takes a step towards you, hand outstretched and you take an automatic step back. A small portion of your brain cries in relief that he’s there, he’s healthy, he’s alive - but the larger part drowning in grief overwhelms that portion, and you use that grief to fuel the simmering anger bubbling under the surface. The anger that this had been kept from you, that he had broken his every promise to never put an order or the job above your relationship.

You refuse to acknowledge the hurt in Spencer’s eyes as you back away from him, refuse to acknowledge the guilt you see in Jennifer as she stands behind him. You barely even glance at Emily, knowing she is the only one who will fully understand your hesitation.

Your eyes dart around instead, searching for an exit, despite knowing the only door is behind the two people you can’t bear to look at. You feel trapped, and you’re not even supposed to be in the office at this point in time.

Briefly, you wonder how they would have told you if Derek hadn’t called you in to say he found Doyle. Your leave had started last week - You had only come in to see the team bring the man to justice.

Instead, you find that while Doyle was caught, there was no justice to dish out as the only crimes you truly cared that the man had committed, had never actually been done.

Belatedly, you realize the worn cardigan you had grabbed that morning had fallen open when you moved, and Spencer’s eyes had zeroed in on your left hands protective positioning, freezing him in place, causing his outstretched hand to drop to his side. His face is ashen, tears in his eyes as he stares at you. As he realizes what your fully rounded stomach means. In the back of your head, you realize he didn’t know, and can at least acknowledge that. But just like with your earlier relief, you push it down, behind the shields you’ve erected.

He breathes out your name, his voice cracking, taking another step towards you, lifting up a trembling hand.

You can practically hear the team hold their breath.

For a single second, you consider falling into his arms, as you have dreamed about doing for the last seven months.

Then you remember the eulogy you’d given, and the plaid blanket that hadn’t moved from its spot on his leather chair, even when you were freezing on the couch. The book on the bedside table, with a bright purple sticky note used as a bookmark that you hadn’t been able to put away. You remembered the six months you had spent trying to accept your life without him.

You wrap your anger tighter around yourself, refusing to give an inch of it up.

Your voice is steel, and your arms wrap fully around your middle, protecting your unborn baby as if he could somehow ever hurt them more than he has already hurt you.

“Don’t.”

It’s the only thing you say, your voice colder than ice. Even Rossi flinches at your tone. You don’t repeat yourself, taking a deep breath before walking around both the living ghosts and down the stairs into the bullpen.

Grant Anderson stands immediately, looking in the direction you came. You don’t look back, but instead straight at the agent with a pleading look. He had somehow been the one put on duty to drive you to appointments, although he never went in with you, and had kept you company when you had been unable to go into the field. Somehow over the last six months you had formed a friendship with the quiet background agent, and through the furious mask you wear, he can tell you’re about to break down in tears. Without hesitating, he turns to grab keys to a company vehicle, telling his desk mate that he will be back within the hour, not saying just where he is going.

His partner has a spare room, and he knows without asking that you don’t want to go home right now. Briefly, he looks back at the glass wall of the conference room and meets Spencer’s eyes, noting the tears running down the man’s face. He looks at him with pity, shaking his head, before he touches you on the shoulder and follows you out of the office.

Your anger is a shield against the betrayal ravaging your entire being, preventing you from shattering to pieces. You wrap it around yourself, tucking every ounce of despair around your person, honing every lie you were told into a spear for protection.

A weapon to use against those you had once trusted with your life.

When you were called into the conference room, this is the last thing you had expected to hear.

You don’t speak as they give the team the news. You look at Hotch, Agent Hotchner, and meet his stare straight on. You let him see the fire, the pain, the anger. You watch at he flinches the tiniest amount, can read the apology in his expression. But you ignore it, just as he ignored your devastation for the last 224 days. Your eyes flick to where JJ, Jennifer, stands with him, and your heart hardens further.

It’s been just over seven months since you saw them.

Seven entire months since you saw Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid.

Emily had been killed by Doyle, but Spencer, your Spencer, he had been collateral damage. He’d figured out what Emily was hiding, had forced her to include him in her plans. He thought he could save her.

He had failed.

In a single night, you lost your two most important people. Your best friend, and the love of your life.

Emily had died after hours on the operating table. Spencer hadn’t even made it that far.

Seven months, one week, and four days since you had last seen his face.

Six months, three weeks and five days since you discovered you were carrying his child.

You had gone directly to Hotch Agent Hotchner’s office from the doctor’s office, telling him that you needed him to tell you the truth, your doubt eating you up, the evidence weighing against his previous words. To tell you right then and there if Spencer was still alive, as it wasn’t just about your grief anymore.

You had shown him the ultrasound, desperately fighting back tears. He hadn’t even let you present the evidence you had against him. He had looked you dead in the eye and lied. Had the gall to give you a look of pity as he willingly shattered your trust. His insistence hadn’t deterred you though.

You tried JJ Jennifer next, telling her she had one chance to tell you the truth. One.

You brought up the evidence in full, no longer hiding the tears.

They hadn’t let you see his body.

Had refused to let you say goodbye - only she had seen both Emily and Spencer. Even with the overwhelming grief, you’d been suspicious, even more so when you’d snuck into the hospital morgue, flashing your badge at the orderly and unable to find either of your teammates.

Then there was the secrecy, the looks between Agent Hotchner and Jennifer that only increased when she came back to the team.

The closed caskets, even though you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Emily wanted to be cremated and Spencer wanted his body to be donated to science after his mother said her goodbyes.

Then the final straw was the fact that you had been taken off the list of allowed visitors to his mother, not even allowed to tell her you were having her only grandchild. The facility couldn’t even tell you how you were removed, just that you were. At least their confusion matched your own.

But Agent Hotchner and Jennifer had both apologized, telling you how sorry they were, but that Spencer was dead. That you needed to accept it and move on. He was not coming back.

But now, 225 days later, standing in the conference room, he was there, right alongside Emily.

Your best friend, and the love of your life. Back from the grave you had buried them in.

Derek seems to be the only one who shares your sense of betrayal, and you watch as the rest of the team turns to hug the two who had disappeared, smiling as if they had already forgotten the devastation of the cold dirt and the always silent gravestones.

You don’t even realize that you had stood from the round table until Spencer takes a step towards you, hand outstretched and you take an automatic step back. A small portion of your brain cries in relief that he’s there, he’s healthy, he’s alive - but the larger part drowning in grief overwhelms that portion, and you use that grief to fuel the simmering anger bubbling under the surface. The anger that this had been kept from you, that he had broken his every promise to never put an order or the job above your relationship.

You refuse to acknowledge the hurt in Spencer’s eyes as you back away from him, refuse to acknowledge the guilt you see in Jennifer as she stands behind him. You barely even glance at Emily, knowing she is the only one who will fully understand your hesitation.

Your eyes dart around instead, searching for an exit, despite knowing the only door is behind the two people you can’t bear to look at. You feel trapped, and you’re not even supposed to be in the office at this point in time.

Briefly, you wonder how they would have told you if Derek hadn’t called you in to say he found Doyle. Your leave had started last week - You had only come in to see the team bring the man to justice.

Instead, you find that while Doyle was caught, there was no justice to dish out as the only crimes you truly cared that the man had committed, had never actually been done.

Belatedly, you realize the worn cardigan you had grabbed that morning had fallen open when you moved, and Spencer’s eyes had zeroed in on your left hands protective positioning, freezing him in place, causing his outstretched hand to drop to his side. His face is ashen, tears in his eyes as he stares at you. As he realizes what your fully rounded stomach means. In the back of your head, you realize he didn’t know, and can at least acknowledge that. But just like with your earlier relief, you push it down, behind the shields you’ve erected.

He breathes out your name, his voice cracking, taking another step towards you, lifting up a trembling hand.

You can practically hear the team hold their breath.

For a single second, you consider falling into his arms, as you have dreamed about doing for the last seven months.

Then you remember the eulogy you’d given, and the plaid blanket that hadn’t moved from its spot on his leather chair, even when you were freezing on the couch. The book on the bedside table, with a bright purple sticky note used as a bookmark that you hadn’t been able to put away. You remembered the six months you had spent trying to accept your life without him.

You wrap your anger tighter around yourself, refusing to give an inch of it up.

Your voice is steel, and your arms wrap fully around your middle, protecting your unborn baby as if he could somehow ever hurt them more than he has already hurt you.

“Don’t.”

It’s the only thing you say, your voice colder than ice. Even Rossi flinches at your tone. You don’t repeat yourself, taking a deep breath before walking around both the living ghosts and down the stairs into the bullpen.

Grant Anderson stands immediately, looking in the direction you came. You don’t look back, but instead straight at the agent with a pleading look. He had somehow been the one put on duty to drive you to appointments, although he never went in with you, and had kept you company when you had been unable to go into the field. Somehow over the last six months you had formed a friendship with the quiet background agent, and through the furious mask you wear, he can tell you’re about to break down in tears. Without hesitating, he turns to grab keys to a company vehicle, telling his desk mate that he will be back within the hour, not saying just where he is going.

His partner has a spare room, and he knows without asking that you don’t want to go home right now. Briefly, he looks back at the glass wall of the conference room and meets Spencer’s eyes, noting the tears running down the man’s face. He looks at him with pity, shaking his head, before he touches you on the shoulder and follows you out of the office.

She inhales deeply, stares at the ceiling. "Of course you are."

Silence, for a beat. A pause, just long enough for her to think—maybe, maybe—he's done.

And then—

"Also, sloths can hold their breath longer than dolphins."

She lets out a low, suffering noise and grabs the nearest pillow. With what little energy she can muster, she lobs it at him. It lands with a soft thump against his chest.

He catches it, startled, before shifting onto his side to face her, grinning through the darkness. "That wasn’t very nice."

"You waking me up to talk about sloths wasn’t very nice," she counters, voice muffled against the blankets.

Another beat of silence.

And then, quieter—she can practically hear him fighting the urge—

"Did you also know that sea otters have a special pocket in their armpits where they keep their favorite rocks?"

She groans, reaching blindly for another pillow. He’s already laughing before she even throws it, a soft, breathy sound that makes it difficult to stay annoyed, even at this ungodly hour.

The pillow misses. Barely. He shifts just in time, and it flops uselessly against the mattress instead of hitting its mark.

"Okay, okay," he says, hands raised in surrender, but his voice is still full of barely contained amusement. "I’ll stop."

She eyes him suspiciously, one hand hovering over the remaining pillow in silent warning. "You sure?"

A pause.

Then, far too innocently—"Did you know that wombat poop is cube-shaped?"

A frustrated noise tears from her throat as she abandons her pillow strategy entirely, rolling over to shove at his shoulder. "Spencer!"

He laughs again, unrepentant, and somehow, she finds herself smiling despite her exhaustion. It’s hard not to, when he’s like this—giddy from lack of sleep, running entirely on caffeine and the endless stream of knowledge constantly bouncing around his brain.

She sighs, dragging a hand down her face before opening her arms. "C’mere, genius."

Spencer stills. Blinks at her. "What?"

She gestures, barely suppressing another yawn. "Come here. Lay down."

There’s a moment of hesitation, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap. But eventually, he shifts, sliding closer, tucking himself against her. She guides his head to her chest, fingers threading through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp in slow, rhythmic motions.

He melts almost instantly. The tension in his body eases, and the weight of him against her is warm, solid. His breathing evens out, slower, deeper.

"Feels nice," he mumbles, voice already thick with impending sleep.

"Mm," she hums, still stroking his hair. "Good. Now shut up and go to sleep."

A beat of silence. Then, so faint she almost doesn’t catch it—

"…Did you also know that ducks can put half their brain to sleep while the other half stays awake—?"

She tugs lightly at his hair in warning.

He lets out a drowsy chuckle. "Okay, okay. I’m done."

She waits. One second. Two. Three.

“I wouldn’t worry about that right now,” she said, knocking on the door before Garcia invited you in. JJ grabbed chairs for the two of you and you gratefully accepted.

Slouched in the chair, your eyes burned as JJ recounted the story for Penelope. “He called her what?” You shifted uncomfortably in the chair, a dull ache in your lower back preventing you from getting comfortable.

It seemed inevitable; you married a guy with six degrees. You were always bound to be the less intelligent one in the relationship. You just never thought Spencer would be the one reminding you of it. It's one of your biggest insecurities, and he broadcasted it for the entire BAU to hear.

“Oh,” Garcia said, “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. I cannot believe he said that to you!” She waved a pen in the air, which was about the extent of her anger. “And then he just left?” She groaned, “Men.”

“Amen,” JJ concurred.

You didn’t answer, you just wiped a tear from your cheek and took a deep breath, the pain in your back subsiding.

Garcia looked at you and smiled, “he’ll come back, and when he does, I highly encourage you to call him stupid.”

Halfheartedly, you smiled at her, “Thanks, Pen. I just…” The ache grew in your back again, “I wish I knew what was going through his head.”

“He’s probably nervous about being a dad,” JJ admitted. “It’s something he’s always wanted, and years ago he had kind of resorted to the idea that it wasn’t going to happen. Then you got married, and then you got pregnant, and things changed again.”

You gripped the arm of the chair and tried to ignore the worried look that the two blondes exchanged.

Penelope leaned forward, “Are you alright?” She asked nervously.

Nodding, you winced, which definitely gave you away. “It’s just Braxton Hicks,” you said, waving away her concern.

JJ raised her eyebrows, “Are they coming consistently?” She asked, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out her phone.

“Uh, maybe? I haven’t been timing them. They’ve been coming all morning… Wait, hey! No, I can’t be in labor,” you said, you were only thirty-four weeks.

Helping you stand, Garcia looked at you, as serious as you’ve ever seen her and said, “It might be a good idea to get checked out anyways, okay? It might be nothing.”

She didn’t have to say it for you to know, it could be nothing, but you could also be having a baby today. You hadn’t picked godparents, you hadn’t picked a name, and you didn’t have your hospital bag with you. “I’ll go tell Emily,” JJ said, rushing out of the room and leaving you with Penelope.

“There has to be something about this room, this is where JJ went into labor with Henry many moons ago,” Penelope picked up her things.

Tears pricked your eyes, but you swallowed them down, “Will you call him for me?” You asked her, watching as she quickly dialed Spencer’s number on her phone.

She failed to hide the way her face fell when he didn’t answer, “I will- I’m going to keep calling until I get an answer.”

Phones weren’t allowed in the room, so JJ sat next to your hospital bed while Penelope tried to reach Spencer. “If he misses this, I’m going to throttle him,” JJ said, shaking her head in disbelief.

“If he misses this, it’s going to crush him,” you whispered, watching the monitor you were hooked up to. He might’ve hurt your feelings, but missing the birth of your baby? That was something he couldn’t get back. Your doctor had tried to stop your labor, but you kept progressing anyway. “Did she try Rossi?”

JJ nodded, looking out into the hallway as Penelope paced through the hallway, her heels clicking on the hospital floor.

You took a deep breath, “I’m worried they’re in trouble, or something happened. Oh my god, JJ. What if something happened?”

Vaguely aware of how your heart rate spiked, JJ grabbed your hand, “Hey, don’t worry about that. They would’ve called for backup if they were in trouble.”

Nodding, you leaned back into the pillows, the number of machines you were hooked up to made it hard to get comfortable. That didn’t even account for the contractions. “I’m glad you’re here because you know what’s happening. Even though we’re on an active case,” you told her.

“And you’re in active labor, of course I’m here,” she told you.

The doctor came back in to check on you, and when she told you that you were nearly there you cried. You had been with Spencer for years, at some points it genuinely felt like you had gone to hell and back together. One bickering match at Quantico wasn’t enough to stop the two of you.

From the hallway, you heard Penelope shout, “Oh my god, David Rossi!”

You watched as Spencer rushed through the hospital hallway, his shoes squeaking as he turned to face you in the doorway. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know where to begin.

“Hey JJ, can you give us a minute?” You asked, reaching out to squeeze her hand. After assuring her that you were going to be fine, she walked out of the room, neglecting to greet Spencer on her way out. “She’s mad at you,” you explained. “Garcia too,” you finished, your eyes following him as he sat down in the chair that JJ had previously occupied.

Slowly, Spencer slowly approached your bed, his eyes flicked over to the bassinet that would soon hold your baby before his golden irises studied your face. Taking a deep breath, he reached over and held your left hand – the one that brandished your wedding ring. “They’ll live,” he assured you, “but what about you?”

You hummed, “Maybe on a different day, I’d be mad at you. Not today though. You hurt my feelings, but I’m not mad at you.” He tenderly kissed the back of your hand as another contraction roiled through you.

“I’m sorry,” he told you earnestly, “I’m so sorry.” He looked around the room, “Only you would go into labor and not realize it. How’s your pain?” He asked, immediately jumping into his role.

Smiling softly, you tilted your head towards him, “You always said my high pain tolerance would get me in trouble someday.” You shifted slightly in the bed, “I’m good, Spence, honest.” Of course, the epidural helped immensely. “I just wish I had the bag,” you admitted.

He grinned, “I have it.” Reaching behind him, he grabbed the bag and lifted it up to show you. The two of you had packed the hospital bag together, and fortunately had the foresight to pack it early.

“I love you!” You blurted, laughing despite yourself. “Oh, I was so upset, Spence!”

Leaning forward, Spencer pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, your skin was clammy, but he didn’t seem to mind. “We were on our way, but I knew you’d want it. In between encouraging me and berating me, Dave stopped so I could grab it from the house. I felt like I needed to bring it as reparations.”

You shook your head, “I’ll get my reparations. I’ll get them in the form of you changing diapers and waking up in the middle of the night.”

He laughed slightly before the smile faded from his face. “You know I think you’re brilliant, right?” Spencer whispered, his expression serious. “Genuinely, Y/N. You’ll say I’m the genius, but your ability to keep up with me is unmatched. It’s one of the reasons I love you so much.”

You opened your mouth to respond but groaned as a contraction hit you.

“Hey,” Spencer whispered, “You’ve got this, love. You’re doing incredible.” As the pain subsided, your eyebrows furrowed, and he noticed. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Taking a deep breath, you looked up at him, “I want to push,” you answered.

He nodded and stood up, “I’ll go get the doctor.”

Before he left, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “Spence,” you whispered, “You’re going to be a great dad,” you told him. You were thinking about what you had talked to JJ and Garcia about earlier, about Spencer being worried about being a dad. He could worry all he wanted, you knew Spencer Reid, and you knew he was going to be an incredible father.

Smiling softly, he responded, “You’re going to be an even better mom.” He assured you that he’d be right back before he went into the hallway.

Small.

She was so small. Just under five pounds, but to your relief, she came out crying. She'd need to spend some time in the NICU, but for now she was with you.

She had been measured, wiped down, tested, and fed, and now she was asleep on your chest. “You’re hovering,” you whispered, sparing a glance over at your husband. He was slightly leaning over the bed with his chin resting in his hands. The two of you had named her Lucie, after a character in your favorite Dickens novel.

“Get used to it,” he whispered back at you. Reaching over and pulling your daughter’s blanket further over her tiny shoulders. Moving his hand up to you, he swept an awry strand of hair from your face, “How are you?”

You felt like your body had been put through a laundry wringer, but you just closed your eyes and hummed, settling back into the pillows even more. “Sore, but happy. Exhausted, but exhilarated. I also kind of feel like bursting into tears,” you said, keeping your voice low. “And don’t lecture me about my hormones, or I will burst into tears.”

Spencer smiled slightly, “You should rest. Do you want to put her in the bassinet?” He said, the bassinet was right next to your bed so you could easily access it.

“Why don’t you hold her?” You asked softly, studying his body language. “She’s your daughter, there’s nothing to worry about,” you tried to comfort him.

He shook his head, “That’s exactly why I’m worried.”

You waited for him to continue. Over the years, you had seen him with Henry, Michael, and Hank, he handled them all very well, but he seemed unnerved by your daughter. “Are you upset that she’s a girl?” You asked, looking around at the pink balloons in the room.

“What? No, definitely not. It’s not that she’s a girl, it’s that she’s my girl,” Spencer said, speaking with his hands as he clarified what was bothering him.

My girl. Your heart clenched at his words. “Here,” you said, adjusting the baby so you could hand her to her dad. Lucie’s mittened hands flailed slightly but she didn’t fully rouse, quickly settling onto her father’s chest. “Spencer, you are not your father,” you told him, keeping your voice firm.

He pressed his lips together in a thin white line and nodded, “I know.”

“Do you? Because I really need you to know that,” you insisted. “You’re not your father. Do you know how I know that?”

Spencer closed his eyes, and a tear streamed down his cheek. “Because you’re brilliant?”

You grinned and shook your head, “No, Spence. It’s because I know you. Your loyalty knows no bounds, and sometimes you say stupid things, but I know that you love me. I know that you love our daughter, and I know that you’ll never leave. I promise never to take advantage of that so long as you promise to never change.”

He seemed to think about your words for a moment, looking down at the sleeping newborn in his arms. “You are brilliant,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“You said that already,” you whispered. Really, Spencer had apologized so many times that you had lost count.

Spencer sighed, and you could almost see the tension leave his body, “’You have been the last dream of my soul,’” He quoted to you. “I was scared. No amount of fear can justify what I said to you.”

You watched as Lucie wriggled in Spencer’s arms, “Maybe not, but you have the rest of our lives to make it up to me.” In the quiet hospital room, you heard a bubbling sound, “You could probably start by changing her diaper.”

Holding back a groan at his diplomatic answer, you turned your head back to the screen, anxiety already at an all-time high after watching video footage of a live birth. At a friend’s recommendation, you had signed yourself and Spencer up for Lamaze lessons, but you hadn’t anticipated how in-depth they would go.

It didn’t help that Spencer had been on a case when you were supposed to start, pushing back your start time. Now you were finishing your last lesson on the same day your OB had given you the ‘any day now’ speech. “Are you alright?” Spencer asked, noticing the way you didn’t respond to his suggestion.

Your head bobbed in confirmation, “Yeah, just tired.” The lights were dimmed in the classroom, between that and the warmth of Spencer behind you, you were ready to fall asleep.

Your sweet husband was beginning to toe the line of being overbearing, “Do you want me to take the rest of the day off?”

“No,” you answered. He had taken an extended lunch to be able to go to this lesson with you, there was only a week until his paternity leave officially started, and it wasn’t necessary for him to stay with you for the rest of the day.

Besides, having him around all day was only going to make your prenatal anxiety worse.

He was already the perfect father, his eidetic memory contributing to all of the facts that he listed about newborns and birth. He knew more about the changes happening to your body, and the worst part was that everyone knew it.

Cringing as the lights went up, you leaned back on your hands as Spencer stood up, packing up your bag before crouching down to help you up. Looking around the room, you watched all of the other couples in your class smiling and laughing with each other, the moms moving around the room with an ease that you no longer possessed.

You took a deep breath, placing one hand on your side in an attempt to brace yourself, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Spencer asked again, watching you zone out in the middle of the Lamaze studio.

“Mhmm,” you reassured him, “Braxton Hicks,” you added, trying to wave off some of his concern.

Nodding in understanding, Spencer gently placed a hand on the small of your back before the two of you started to make your way out of the room, stopping to grab the gift bag your instructor had put together for you. His hand dropped to hold yours before walking down the steps, leaving the two of you at the entrance to the parking garage, “Hey,” he nudged, trying to lift your spirits, “No more classes.”

Admittedly, the Lamaze lessons weren’t your favorite couple activity, and Spencer knew that the only reason you kept going was that they were non-refundable. “Right,” you agreed, knowing that now you’d have to face the next hurdle—actually giving birth.

“Okay,” Spencer said, gently herding you over to a park bench. He set the bags down on the seat before you sat down, leaving him squatting in front of you. “What’s wrong, honey? I know something’s wrong,” he insisted, knowing you well enough to be able to tell when you were burying your feelings.

You leaned back onto the bench, “I’m pregnant,” you shrugged as if that was answer enough.

Spencer frowned up at you, “Yes, this much I am aware of,” he confirmed, eyes flickering down to your bump before going back to your face.

“I just…” you struggled to find the right words, “I’m pregnant, and you’re doing all of this research into pregnancy and labor and birth, and I’ve done none of it. None of the research or the work and I’m— I feel useless!”

His expression softened at the sight of tears welling in your eyes, “You’re not useless. You’re so far from useless that it’s not even on the list of adjectives I would consider while describing you.” He rested his hands on you, one on top of your knee to maintain his balance and another on the side of the bump, skimming his thumb over the cotton of your t-shirt. “You’ve been growing our baby, and he’s beautiful and healthy and he’s going to love you regardless of how much research you’ve done about him.”

Huffing, you wipe at your teary eyes, “It’s so embarrassing though! Going to the BAU today and hearing everyone talk about how prepared you are, the stacks of books on your desk and on your nightstand and on the coffee table.” You paused to take a deep breath, “In those stupid classes where you knew so many of the answers that the instructor stopped calling on you to give everyone else a chance.”

“Sweetheart,” Spencer murmured, “I like being prepared. Especially for big changes like this.”

You nodded, resting your hand on top of his, “And I love that about you, but I have never felt so unprepared for anything in my life,” you confessed, struggling to catch your breath.

It wasn’t like Spencer didn’t understand your frustrations, he just wished you had voiced some of these concerns sooner, “You don’t need to prepare like I do, though. Your maternal instinct? It’s inherent. It’ll immutably move you to sense and take care of the baby, okay? With dads it’s different. I don’t have any sort of physical connection with him like you do, I won’t develop a similar instinct until I actually spend time with him. So, technically, you’re ahead of me,” he explained, using all of his research to soothe you out of your panic.

“I just want him to love me as I love him,” you pouted, looking down at the bump, “but I ache all over, Spence. My boobs hurt. They’re not even tender anymore, they just hurt,” you complained.

Spencer chuckled lightly at your breast comment, “He will love you as you love him; I guarantee it. Your boobs hurt because they’re producing colostrum, and we can call your doctor later to see if it’s alright to pump. That’ll help relieve the pressure.”

Some of the tension in your body released, and you sniffled timidly, “I think those classes are designed to freak people out of ever having another baby. Oh my god,” your eyes go wide as you recall the live birth video, “You can’t watch.”

“Watch what, honey?” Spencer asked.

You looked at him with abject horror in your eyes, “The baby. You can’t watch me give birth. Is that why the dads always used to wait in another room? Should I be having you wait in another room while I’m in labor?”

He shook his head, “I’d like to be in the room with you, but if you’d be more comfortable having me somewhere else, then we can figure that out. However, we just went through twelve hours of birthing classes together, so if you’d rather I just refrain from actually watching you push the baby out, then I will promise to abide by your rules.”

Horror stories that you had heard from other moms about how their husbands wouldn’t touch them after birth filled your mind, and that type of rejection horrified you. With wide eyes, you looked at your husband and whispered, “I can’t do this.”

Spencer watched helplessly as tears filled your eyes once again, “Can’t do what?”

“Have a baby,” you answered, your voice tight with emotion, “What was I thinking? I never should’ve done this, oh no.” You continued muttering to yourself, sending your head into a tailspin as Spencer desperately tried to get you to come back down to earth.

“Hey,” Spencer crooned, “Y/N, hey,” he tried to get you to snap out of it. “Hey, we made this decision together, remember? Why didn’t you tell me you hated being pregnant?”

Your eyes snapped to his, “I don’t hate being pregnant. I’m just over it!”

Pushing your bags off to the side, Spencer sat down next to you on the bench, “You want him here, huh?”

Nodding melodramatically, you cover your eyes with your hands, “I just wish he could be in my arms instead of in my belly, and now that I’ve been told he could come any day it’s so much worse.”

“Thirty-seven weeks is any day now territory,” Spencer acknowledged, “but not today, I’m afraid.”

Dragging your hands down your face as you met his eyes, knowing that today was, in fact, not the day. “I miss hugs,” you told him mournfully, wiping at the fresh tears in your eyes.

Spencer casually put his arm around your shoulders, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your temple, “I hug you all the time,” he reminded you.

“It’s not the same with the bump,” you admitted, there was always an awkward lean involved, and you could never get close enough to him.

He raised his eyebrows at you curiously, “So, if I promise to give you a hug after the baby’s born, will you stop crying?”

Leaning your head back and using his arm as a headrest, your head bobbed slightly, “Yeah, I think that could fix me.”

“Honey,” he started, “I promise to give you the coziest, most rejuvenating hug of your entire life after the baby comes. I will hug you like you’ve never been hugged before.”

Turning to face him, a timid smile grew on your face, “Well, now you’re kind of laying it on thick, don’t you think?”

He sighed desperately, “I just really want you to stop crying.”

Quicker than you expected, Spencer shook his head, “Of course, we have to tell him today. What would happen if you got sent out into the field?” He self-consciously readjusted the strap of his shoulder bag before looking up to watch the floor numbers rise as the elevator went up, “If we didn’t tell him because of my own reservations and then something happened to you, it’d… I’d…”

Your chest clenched as his voice trailed off and you thought of the positive pregnancy tests that were still sitting on your bathroom counter. The tiny wad of cells that had been settling in your womb for weeks without your knowledge – until Spencer asked if you needed pads while you had been grocery shopping – was already so loved.

The first test had come back with such a faint line that you convinced yourself it was just a shadow of an indent on the fragile plastic, but the test you took this morning had been glaringly positive. Slowly, you reached out and took Spencer’s hand, intertwining your fingers as the door to the elevator opened and the two of you stepped out together, “Nothing’s going to happen to me, okay?”

Taking a deep breath, he nodded while holding the glass door to the bullpen open for you, glancing up, you saw that your dad’s office door was open. As soon as you set your things at your desk, you looked at Spencer, nodding up the steps, figuring it was better to do this now than wait.

By Spencer’s math, you were approximately five weeks pregnant, much earlier than people usually elect to share their news. Still, both of you immediately decided it was in your best interest to let your dad know right away.

Leading the way, you knocked on the heavy wooden door to get his attention, his head snapped up in the direction of the noise, shoulders relaxing slightly when he saw it was you, likely having thought a case was being brought in. “Do you have a second?” You asked softly, nerves creeping up as your father waved the both of you in.

“For you, of course,” he responded, nodding at Spencer in acknowledgment before watching suspiciously as the two of you sat in the chairs in front of his desk. “What’s wrong?” He asked, watching you fold and unfold your hands in your lap, it didn’t help that Spencer looked like he had been called into the principal’s office.

You shook your head, “Nothing’s wrong, Dad. We just needed to have a chat,” you told him.

Frowning, his curiosity deepened, “A chat?” Hotch questioned the word that wasn’t a frequent flyer in your lexicon.

“A talk?” You tried again meekly, knowing that he’d start making his own conclusions if you didn’t say something soon.

He looked over at your boyfriend, “If it’s just a talk then why is Reid avoiding eye contact?”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhaled heavily, “We should’ve waited,” you muttered to no one in particular.

“Waited for what, exactly? You’re not splitting up, are you?” He inquired, likely developing a list of forms that would need to be filled out if the two of you had in fact broken up.

You waved your hand aimlessly in the air. It seemed that neither of you had fully understood how hard it would be to announce your accidental pregnancy to your father and your boss simultaneously.

Since neither of you spoke, your father continued, “I’m obligated to side with my daughter. Which isn’t solely based on my belief that she can do no wrong, but if-“

“I’m pregnant,” you blurted, clamping your hand over your mouth as if you could recapture the words that had flown from your lips.

What followed was the silence that you had dreaded. Weren’t people supposed to jump for joy in situations like this? However, the moment Hotch jumped for joy for anything would likely end in someone being institutionalized.

Slowly, you dropped your hand from your mouth, watching your father as if he were a ticking time bomb.

“Is this a good thing?” He asked, finally shattering the wall of silence that had been put up.

Your eyes widened as you looked between your father and your boyfriend, “Oh, yes! We’re very happy,” you clarified, bracing your hands on the armrests of your chair.

Finally, your dad smiled and stood up from his desk chair, waving you over and enveloping you in a hug, “Then congratulations,” he told you, pulling away slightly, “How long have you known?”

You looked back at Spencer, who was standing up beside you and looking decidedly less nervous, “About ten hours,” he answered for the both of you.

Releasing you, your father looked your boyfriend up and down, “You should probably get married before the baby arrives,” he suggested. You recognized the mischievous look on his face – you frequently sported the same look.

“Right, of course,” Spencer said, straightening his posture behind you, nerves once again emanating from him.

You held a hand up, “An incredibly bold statement considering I was in your wedding,” you peered at your father.

Ignoring you, your dad continued, “So, we should settle on a dowry.”

“Dad!”

You smiled softly to yourself as you heard Spencer’s footsteps coming down the staircase. Padding over to the kitchen counter, you sat on one of the stools, a cup of tea in front of you.

Before he even looked at the newspaper, Spencer leaned over to kiss you good morning, “You look tired,” he whispered, hooking a finger under your chin as if he were investigating the dark circles underneath your eyes.

“Way to make a girl feel good about herself,” you teased lightly, even though you knew he was right. At least you felt tired.

He rolled his eyes, “You know that’s not what I meant.” Turning to grab his mug of coffee off of the counter, he observed you again, “Are you sure your doctor said nothing was wrong?”

Smiling, you gave him a brief nod. You had gone to see your doctor a few days ago for nausea and fatigue, and Spencer would’ve gone with you had he not been on the other side of the country on a case. “They’re running some tests, but they didn’t see anything blatantly wrong,” the doctor was running a few blood tests, checking your iron levels and HCG.

Using his free hand, Spencer reached over and moved a lock of hair out of your face, “They said your blood pressure was low?”

Low blood pressure, as it turned out, was a pregnancy symptom that was most common in the first trimester. “You’re freaking out over nothing, Spence,” you told him. Really, it was something. A rather large something – or small, depending on how you wanted to look at it. “Come on, it’s crossword time,” you told him, using the end of the pen to tap on the newspaper.

“I worry about you when I’m away. You do know that low blood pressure can cause syncope, right? Did they prescribe you anything for it?” He asked, ignoring your wishes to move on and do the crossword.

There was a small part of you that just wanted to tell him, but frankly, you had worked too hard on the crossword puzzle to give yourself away like that. You couldn’t tell him that they didn’t prescribe you anything because they didn’t know how far along you were. A larger part of you knew that if you just got him to work on the puzzle, he would have his answers in about seven minutes.

Then his phone rang, he pulled the device out of his pocket, and the Caller ID on the screen caused you to slump your shoulders forward. It was Garcia. “Hey Garcia,” he greeted on the phone, “at the tarmac?”

You set your head on the counter and sighed in defeat as Spencer hung up the phone.

“Are you alright?” He asked you softly, tenderly wrapping an arm around your torso.

Humming, you sat back up, ignoring the stars in your field of vision as you did so. “I’m fine, you should go,” you insisted.

Spencer shook his head, “No, you’re sick. I’ll call Garcia back and tell her I have to stay back.” Acting bewildered at the idea that he had been so remiss as to agree to do his job while you were unwell.

You reached out and set a hand on his, “It’s alright, love. I can take care of myself,” you reminded him. Besides the fact that you were wholly self-sufficient, the only reason why Spencer would be asked to meet the team at the tarmac was if they were headed toward a particularly gnarly case – they needed all hands on deck.

“Promise me you’ll check in? Call your mom if you need any help, please,” he requested, pleading eyes following you as you got up to hug him.

Nodding, you wrapped your arms around him, “You should take the crossword with you.” Pulling away, you haphazardly refolded the newspaper and handed it to him.

Furrowing his brow, Spencer inspected the paper that you had given him. “We always do the crossword together on Saturdays,” he found you incredibly helpful on the pop culture clues. “We could save this one and then have two for next week,” he offered.

God. No. Your eyes widened at the idea of having to keep your secret for another week, shaking your head, you shrugged, “No, you should take it. It’ll make me look forward to next week even more,” you insisted.

He folded, and with a sweet kiss to the forehead, he was off to go save lives, remaining entirely unaware of the one growing inside of you.

him

The judgmental Italian behind him was proving to be a distraction, “Did you find something?” Spencer asked, eyeing the evidence board with frustration. Something bugged him about the case, and he couldn’t figure out exactly what it was.

“Not right now, but it’s three in the morning,” Rossi said, joining Spencer by the evidence board. “Why don’t you give that big brain of yours a break?”

Shaking his head, Spencer crossed his arms in front of his chest, “I tried. I can’t stop thinking about the case.” Men were popping up dead in a small Missouri town at an alarming rate, and he felt so close to a breakthrough.

Dave nodded like he understood the feeling, that was probably why he had emerged from his hotel room so early, returning to the precinct before the sun peeked over the horizon. “What do you usually do to wind your brain down?”

Raising his eyebrows, Spencer shrugged, “Crossword puzzles,” he admitted, any word puzzle would do the trick.

The chuckle from the older man next to him startled Spencer, “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” Rossi looked around the precinct, “I’m sure we can find one around here somewhere.”

“No,” Spencer said, “I have one in my bag, actually.” He refrained from including the detail that you had given him the crossword puzzle, or else he’d never hear the end of it.

Clapping him on the back, Rossi lifted his coffee cup, “Then I suggest you go take the thirty seconds to fill out that puzzle and then get some rest.”

Once he was back in his hotel room, he changed before pulling out the pile of papers that you had sent him off with. Sitting on top of the bed, he filled out the puzzle in approximately six minutes and forty-three seconds. Once the letters were filled in, he skimmed the puzzle – just to check it over.

The only one that might’ve given him trouble was about an American actress – usually he had you to help him with pop culture, but he recalled having the same last name as an actress in Days of Our Lives.

It was interesting that the words “Baby” and “Reid” were right next to each other.

Wait.

Quickly, he calculated the odds that the words “Baby” “Reid” “Due” and “November” were all in the puzzle and when the numbers were put together, they made your anniversary. Spencer just as quickly called you, listening to the phone ringing.

His heart was racing as he waited to see if you answered the phone. “Hey,” your groggy voice came through the receiver.

“Where did you get this crossword puzzle?” He asked you, flipping through the rest of the newspaper for the first time.

You hummed softly, “You’re doing it right now?”

Looking at the alarm clock on his bedside table, he dropped his face into his hands. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t even think about the time,” it was just past four in the morning now, making it just past five in the morning in Virginia. “I just thought that…” his voice trailed off. What if it was just a coincidence?

There was silence on your end of the call, and he wondered if you had fallen asleep. You hadn’t been feeling well, and he’d woken you up with his phone call. “You thought what, Spence?”

The teasing lilt in your voice had given you away to him immediately. He knew. Every one of his suspicions were confirmed, “Y/N Reid,” he breathed.

“Spencer Reid,” you countered.

He took a deep breath, “Are you pregnant?”

“Yeah,” you answered simply, with about as much enthusiasm as he expected from you at five in the morning.

It all started to make sense to him. The low blood pressure, the drowsiness, and even the slight caginess when it came to him asking about your doctor’s visit. He swiped away a few stray tears, “I don’t know what to say.” It wasn’t a feeling he was overly used to.

You cleared your throat, “Are you happy?” Nerves clouded your voice, and he could hear you becoming more awake – more alert.

“I am,” he searched aimlessly. Elated. Thrilled. Ecstatic. “I’m so happy,” he told you, at a loss for words. “I don’t know what to say, I just… God, are you okay?” Dread washed over him, you were alone, sick, and pregnant at home and he was halfway across the country.

Sighing, he heard a ruffling on the other end of the call. “I’m great. I’m exhausted, I had no idea being pregnant was so tiring. I mean, I knew, but I didn’t know.” You sighed again, “I’m not making any sense.”

He laughed lightly at your rambling, “You’re making perfect sense. Chances are your energy will return during the second trimester.”

“Don’t get my hopes up.” You paused again for just a moment, “I’m sorry if I scared you. With the whole doctor’s appointment thing. They really are keeping an eye on my blood pressure and whole slew of other things, but they know the root cause.”

A giddy smile grew on his face, “It’s because you’re pregnant.”

A soft hum came through the phone, “It’s because I’m pregnant,” you concurred.

Your anger is a shield against the betrayal ravaging your entire being, preventing you from shattering to pieces. You wrap it around yourself, tucking every ounce of despair around your person, honing every lie you were told into a spear for protection.

A weapon to use against those you had once trusted with your life.

When you were called into the conference room, this is the last thing you had expected to hear.

You don’t speak as they give the team the news. You look at Hotch, Agent Hotchner, and meet his stare straight on. You let him see the fire, the pain, the anger. You watch at he flinches the tiniest amount, can read the apology in his expression. But you ignore it, just as he ignored your devastation for the last 224 days. Your eyes flick to where JJ, Jennifer, stands with him, and your heart hardens further.

It’s been just over seven months since you saw them.

Seven entire months since you saw Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid.

Emily had been killed by Doyle, but Spencer, your Spencer, he had been collateral damage. He’d figured out what Emily was hiding, had forced her to include him in her plans. He thought he could save her.

He had failed.

In a single night, you lost your two most important people. Your best friend, and the love of your life.

Emily had died after hours on the operating table. Spencer hadn’t even made it that far.

Seven months, one week, and four days since you had last seen his face.

Six months, three weeks and five days since you discovered you were carrying his child.

You had gone directly to Hotch Agent Hotchner’s office from the doctor’s office, telling him that you needed him to tell you the truth, your doubt eating you up, the evidence weighing against his previous words. To tell you right then and there if Spencer was still alive, as it wasn’t just about your grief anymore.

You had shown him the ultrasound, desperately fighting back tears. He hadn’t even let you present the evidence you had against him. He had looked you dead in the eye and lied. Had the gall to give you a look of pity as he willingly shattered your trust. His insistence hadn’t deterred you though.

You tried JJ Jennifer next, telling her she had one chance to tell you the truth. One.

You brought up the evidence in full, no longer hiding the tears.

They hadn’t let you see his body.

Had refused to let you say goodbye - only she had seen both Emily and Spencer. Even with the overwhelming grief, you’d been suspicious, even more so when you’d snuck into the hospital morgue, flashing your badge at the orderly and unable to find either of your teammates.

Then there was the secrecy, the looks between Agent Hotchner and Jennifer that only increased when she came back to the team.

The closed caskets, even though you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Emily wanted to be cremated and Spencer wanted his body to be donated to science after his mother said her goodbyes.

Then the final straw was the fact that you had been taken off the list of allowed visitors to his mother, not even allowed to tell her you were having her only grandchild. The facility couldn’t even tell you how you were removed, just that you were. At least their confusion matched your own.

But Agent Hotchner and Jennifer had both apologized, telling you how sorry they were, but that Spencer was dead. That you needed to accept it and move on. He was not coming back.

But now, 225 days later, standing in the conference room, he was there, right alongside Emily.

Your best friend, and the love of your life. Back from the grave you had buried them in.

Derek seems to be the only one who shares your sense of betrayal, and you watch as the rest of the team turns to hug the two who had disappeared, smiling as if they had already forgotten the devastation of the cold dirt and the always silent gravestones.

You don’t even realize that you had stood from the round table until Spencer takes a step towards you, hand outstretched and you take an automatic step back. A small portion of your brain cries in relief that he’s there, he’s healthy, he’s alive - but the larger part drowning in grief overwhelms that portion, and you use that grief to fuel the simmering anger bubbling under the surface. The anger that this had been kept from you, that he had broken his every promise to never put an order or the job above your relationship.

You refuse to acknowledge the hurt in Spencer’s eyes as you back away from him, refuse to acknowledge the guilt you see in Jennifer as she stands behind him. You barely even glance at Emily, knowing she is the only one who will fully understand your hesitation.

Your eyes dart around instead, searching for an exit, despite knowing the only door is behind the two people you can’t bear to look at. You feel trapped, and you’re not even supposed to be in the office at this point in time.

Briefly, you wonder how they would have told you if Derek hadn’t called you in to say he found Doyle. Your leave had started last week - You had only come in to see the team bring the man to justice.

Instead, you find that while Doyle was caught, there was no justice to dish out as the only crimes you truly cared that the man had committed, had never actually been done.

Belatedly, you realize the worn cardigan you had grabbed that morning had fallen open when you moved, and Spencer’s eyes had zeroed in on your left hands protective positioning, freezing him in place, causing his outstretched hand to drop to his side. His face is ashen, tears in his eyes as he stares at you. As he realizes what your fully rounded stomach means. In the back of your head, you realize he didn’t know, and can at least acknowledge that. But just like with your earlier relief, you push it down, behind the shields you’ve erected.

He breathes out your name, his voice cracking, taking another step towards you, lifting up a trembling hand.

You can practically hear the team hold their breath.

For a single second, you consider falling into his arms, as you have dreamed about doing for the last seven months.

Then you remember the eulogy you’d given, and the plaid blanket that hadn’t moved from its spot on his leather chair, even when you were freezing on the couch. The book on the bedside table, with a bright purple sticky note used as a bookmark that you hadn’t been able to put away. You remembered the six months you had spent trying to accept your life without him.

You wrap your anger tighter around yourself, refusing to give an inch of it up.

Your voice is steel, and your arms wrap fully around your middle, protecting your unborn baby as if he could somehow ever hurt them more than he has already hurt you.

“Don’t.”

It’s the only thing you say, your voice colder than ice. Even Rossi flinches at your tone. You don’t repeat yourself, taking a deep breath before walking around both the living ghosts and down the stairs into the bullpen.

Grant Anderson stands immediately, looking in the direction you came. You don’t look back, but instead straight at the agent with a pleading look. He had somehow been the one put on duty to drive you to appointments, although he never went in with you, and had kept you company when you had been unable to go into the field. Somehow over the last six months you had formed a friendship with the quiet background agent, and through the furious mask you wear, he can tell you’re about to break down in tears. Without hesitating, he turns to grab keys to a company vehicle, telling his desk mate that he will be back within the hour, not saying just where he is going.

His partner has a spare room, and he knows without asking that you don’t want to go home right now. Briefly, he looks back at the glass wall of the conference room and meets Spencer’s eyes, noting the tears running down the man’s face. He looks at him with pity, shaking his head, before he touches you on the shoulder and follows you out of the office.

Your anger is a shield against the betrayal ravaging your entire being, preventing you from shattering to pieces. You wrap it around yourself, tucking every ounce of despair around your person, honing every lie you were told into a spear for protection.

A weapon to use against those you had once trusted with your life.

When you were called into the conference room, this is the last thing you had expected to hear.

You don’t speak as they give the team the news. You look at Hotch, Agent Hotchner, and meet his stare straight on. You let him see the fire, the pain, the anger. You watch at he flinches the tiniest amount, can read the apology in his expression. But you ignore it, just as he ignored your devastation for the last 224 days. Your eyes flick to where JJ, Jennifer, stands with him, and your heart hardens further.

It’s been just over seven months since you saw them.

Seven entire months since you saw Emily Prentiss and Spencer Reid.

Emily had been killed by Doyle, but Spencer, your Spencer, he had been collateral damage. He’d figured out what Emily was hiding, had forced her to include him in her plans. He thought he could save her.

He had failed.

In a single night, you lost your two most important people. Your best friend, and the love of your life.

Emily had died after hours on the operating table. Spencer hadn’t even made it that far.

Seven months, one week, and four days since you had last seen his face.

Six months, three weeks and five days since you discovered you were carrying his child.

You had gone directly to Hotch Agent Hotchner’s office from the doctor’s office, telling him that you needed him to tell you the truth, your doubt eating you up, the evidence weighing against his previous words. To tell you right then and there if Spencer was still alive, as it wasn’t just about your grief anymore.

You had shown him the ultrasound, desperately fighting back tears. He hadn’t even let you present the evidence you had against him. He had looked you dead in the eye and lied. Had the gall to give you a look of pity as he willingly shattered your trust. His insistence hadn’t deterred you though.

You tried JJ Jennifer next, telling her she had one chance to tell you the truth. One.

You brought up the evidence in full, no longer hiding the tears.

They hadn’t let you see his body.

Had refused to let you say goodbye - only she had seen both Emily and Spencer. Even with the overwhelming grief, you’d been suspicious, even more so when you’d snuck into the hospital morgue, flashing your badge at the orderly and unable to find either of your teammates.

Then there was the secrecy, the looks between Agent Hotchner and Jennifer that only increased when she came back to the team.

The closed caskets, even though you knew without a shadow of a doubt that Emily wanted to be cremated and Spencer wanted his body to be donated to science after his mother said her goodbyes.

Then the final straw was the fact that you had been taken off the list of allowed visitors to his mother, not even allowed to tell her you were having her only grandchild. The facility couldn’t even tell you how you were removed, just that you were. At least their confusion matched your own.

But Agent Hotchner and Jennifer had both apologized, telling you how sorry they were, but that Spencer was dead. That you needed to accept it and move on. He was not coming back.

But now, 225 days later, standing in the conference room, he was there, right alongside Emily.

Your best friend, and the love of your life. Back from the grave you had buried them in.

Derek seems to be the only one who shares your sense of betrayal, and you watch as the rest of the team turns to hug the two who had disappeared, smiling as if they had already forgotten the devastation of the cold dirt and the always silent gravestones.

You don’t even realize that you had stood from the round table until Spencer takes a step towards you, hand outstretched and you take an automatic step back. A small portion of your brain cries in relief that he’s there, he’s healthy, he’s alive - but the larger part drowning in grief overwhelms that portion, and you use that grief to fuel the simmering anger bubbling under the surface. The anger that this had been kept from you, that he had broken his every promise to never put an order or the job above your relationship.

You refuse to acknowledge the hurt in Spencer’s eyes as you back away from him, refuse to acknowledge the guilt you see in Jennifer as she stands behind him. You barely even glance at Emily, knowing she is the only one who will fully understand your hesitation.

Your eyes dart around instead, searching for an exit, despite knowing the only door is behind the two people you can’t bear to look at. You feel trapped, and you’re not even supposed to be in the office at this point in time.

Briefly, you wonder how they would have told you if Derek hadn’t called you in to say he found Doyle. Your leave had started last week - You had only come in to see the team bring the man to justice.

Instead, you find that while Doyle was caught, there was no justice to dish out as the only crimes you truly cared that the man had committed, had never actually been done.

Belatedly, you realize the worn cardigan you had grabbed that morning had fallen open when you moved, and Spencer’s eyes had zeroed in on your left hands protective positioning, freezing him in place, causing his outstretched hand to drop to his side. His face is ashen, tears in his eyes as he stares at you. As he realizes what your fully rounded stomach means. In the back of your head, you realize he didn’t know, and can at least acknowledge that. But just like with your earlier relief, you push it down, behind the shields you’ve erected.

He breathes out your name, his voice cracking, taking another step towards you, lifting up a trembling hand.

You can practically hear the team hold their breath.

For a single second, you consider falling into his arms, as you have dreamed about doing for the last seven months.

Then you remember the eulogy you’d given, and the plaid blanket that hadn’t moved from its spot on his leather chair, even when you were freezing on the couch. The book on the bedside table, with a bright purple sticky note used as a bookmark that you hadn’t been able to put away. You remembered the six months you had spent trying to accept your life without him.

You wrap your anger tighter around yourself, refusing to give an inch of it up.

Your voice is steel, and your arms wrap fully around your middle, protecting your unborn baby as if he could somehow ever hurt them more than he has already hurt you.

“Don’t.”

It’s the only thing you say, your voice colder than ice. Even Rossi flinches at your tone. You don’t repeat yourself, taking a deep breath before walking around both the living ghosts and down the stairs into the bullpen.

Grant Anderson stands immediately, looking in the direction you came. You don’t look back, but instead straight at the agent with a pleading look. He had somehow been the one put on duty to drive you to appointments, although he never went in with you, and had kept you company when you had been unable to go into the field. Somehow over the last six months you had formed a friendship with the quiet background agent, and through the furious mask you wear, he can tell you’re about to break down in tears. Without hesitating, he turns to grab keys to a company vehicle, telling his desk mate that he will be back within the hour, not saying just where he is going.

His partner has a spare room, and he knows without asking that you don’t want to go home right now. Briefly, he looks back at the glass wall of the conference room and meets Spencer’s eyes, noting the tears running down the man’s face. He looks at him with pity, shaking his head, before he touches you on the shoulder and follows you out of the office.