#dad!spencer

The image was the Aurora Borealis, bright purple and green waves displayed in the sky. 

Reid pointed to the corner of the image, it was him, you, and your daughter posing and smiling. You’d really have to look to notice you all in the corner, it’s not something your eye could pick up if you passed by the photo.

“Oh come on, you can barely see that. Don’t you have any other photos of her?”

Reid shifted in his seat, moving to grab his wallet out his back pocket. 

Once it got it, he opened it and turned it to face the two across from him, the clear slot showing a small photo of a baby girl, wrapped up in a soft quilt and smiling.

Emily and Derek both looked at it with dropped jaws. Their eyes darted to Reid’s unbothered face, then back to the photo, then back to his face, then back to the photo again.

They were shocked at how unbothered Reid was by this. It was never a secret though, the conversation just really never came up. He’d let them know when he wanted to.

“You know Garcias gonna be pissed she never got to set up a baby shower for you.” Derek scoffed, breaking the trance he was in. Reid put his wallet back in his pocket.

“Well you said she’s gonna turn two soon, maybe she can help out with her birthday.” Emily added in.

“So you were there for all the big moments? Birth, first steps, first words? Even with all the cases we had?” 

“I guess I got lucky.” Spencer shrugged.

“Lucky? I thought you didn’t believe in that, thought you were a man of science.” Derek mocked.

“I guess I was there at all the right times.”

It all began to click in Emily and Derek’s heads. All the days Reid was given a pass to do paperwork at home rather than being stuck in the office. Checking his cell phone more often. Seeming more busy on the weekends. Looking happier even though he was tired.

They knew it’d be something personal. They knew he had a partner, they knew you. They’ve met you before. But they never thought you’d have a child together.

“Wait, does Hotch know?” Emily said after stumbling over her words first, looking at Hotch's cracked open office door.

“Sharing details about Reid’s personal life is up to him, not me.” Hotch spoke, keeping his eyes focused on the papers he was writing on.

“Oh Garcia is gonna flip when she finds out you told him and not her!” Emily laughed while Garcia walked into the room.

“What? What am I gonna flip out about?” Garcia said, looking back and forth between everyone.

“Pretty boy over here has his own babygirl.”

“Babygirl? I thought we all knew you had a partner? Baby-girl. Baby girl? Oh. My. God!” Garcia's face dropped in shock and realization, she began to move around trying to find a place to put down her mug so she could properly freak out. “You have a daughter?”

“Yes,” you cut in, laughing softly. “It’s supposed to fall out, honey. It’s normal. It just means you’re getting bigger.”

She gasps like that’s personally offensive. “But I like this tooth.”

“You’ll get a new, stronger one,” you promise. “A big kid tooth.”

She considers this, then scowls thoughtfully. “Do I get to keep this one?”

“Well.” You lean back in your chair. “You can. Or you can put it under your pillow and give it to the tooth fairy.”

She freezes.

“The… tooth fairy,” she repeats slowly, like you’ve just said something in Russian.

“Yeah.” You gesture her over. “When your tooth falls out, you can put it under your pillow and the tooth fairy will sneak in while you’re sleeping, take the tooth, and leave you some money as a reward.”

Margot squints. “How?”

“How what?”

“How does she get in?” she demands. “The house doors are locked. We’ve talked about stranger danger. You and Daddy always say strangers aren’t allowed in the house. She is a stranger.”

You bite back a smile. “Well, she’s magic, so it’s a little different.”

“That’s not a real answer,” Margot says, completely serious. Sir Reginald bobs in her fist like he agrees. “Does she have a key? Does she pick the lock? Does she come down the chimney like Santa?”

Oh boy. You are not caffeinated enough for tooth fairy logistics.

“She’s very small,” you try. “Maybe she fits under the door. I’m not sure exactly.”

“Why does she take teeth? What does she do with them?” Margot presses. “She can’t just keep them all. That’s weird. And unsanitary.”

You stare at her. “You know you’re five, right?”

“I’m five and three-quarters. That’s almost six,” she corrects. “And I have questions.”

Of course she does. She’s Spencer’s child, after all. The only five-year-old you know who regularly uses words like “unsanitary.”

You sigh and reach for your phone. “You can ask Daddy all your questions. I’m sure he knows lots about the tooth fairy.”

She brightens. “Can we go see him today? At his work?”

“I think that can be arranged,” you say. “We’ll swing by after breakfast so you can show him your wiggly tooth.”

“Can I bring Sir Reginald too?”

“Of course you can,” you laugh. “Go get dressed. And don’t wiggle too hard in the meantime, okay? It’ll fall out when it’s ready.”

She nods and scampers off, goose flapping against her side.

You tap out a quick text to Spencer.

your daughter’s tooth is loose and she has a LOT of questions. prepare yourself

His reply comes almost immediately.

I’ve been preparing for this since she was born.

And then:

Bring her by whenever. It’s just paperwork day here, so I’m not too busy. Can't wait to see my girls.

Your heart does a little stupid flip at that. All these years and “my girls” still gets you every time.

You smile down at your phone, finish your coffee in three sips, and go wrangle the rest of your morning.

—

The BAU is quieter than usual when you and Margot step off the elevator, her small hand tucked in yours, Sir Reginald dressed to the nines in a tiny clip-on bowtie Garcia made last year because “every distinguished goose needs formalwear.”

Margot knows this hallway. The security guards at the door know her. This isn’t her first time here — not by a long shot. The bullpen is as much an extension of her family as your living room.

As soon as you clear the glass doors, a familiar voice booms across the room.

“Hey, there she is! My favorite member of the Reid family.”

“Uncle Derek!” Margot shrieks, abandoning you completely. She launches herself at Morgan, who catches her with insulting ease, hoisting her up like a sack of flour and spinning her once.

“Well alright then Derek,” you say dryly as you approach. “Nice to see you too.”

He grins over Margot’s shoulder. “You’re a very close second favorite, mama.”

Penelope appears seconds later in a flurry of color and sparkles, gasping so dramatically you’re surprised she stays conscious.

“My tiny best friend!” she cries, reaching up to squish Margot’s cheeks. “Look at you! And look at this goose!” She plucks Sir Reginald out of Margot’s hand to admire the bowtie. “Reggie, you are looking devastatingly handsome.”

“It’s Sir Reginald,” Margot reminds her. “Daddy says titles matter.”

“Of course they do,” Garcia says. “Forgive me, Sir Goosebury.”

“Where is Daddy?” Margot demands, craning her neck.

Spencer is on his feet, file abandoned on his desk, smile soft and wide in that way he saves just for you and her. Even from across the bullpen you can see him relax, like someone let the air back into his lungs.

“Right here, Margoose,” he calls.

She squirms until Morgan sets her down, then barrels across the floor toward Spencer. He crouches to meet her halfway, arms open, laughing when she slams into his chest.

“Hi, Daddy,” she says into his tie.

“Hi, sweet girl.” He kisses her hair, breathing her in like she’s oxygen. “I heard a rumor there’s a loose tooth situation?”

She leans back, immediately baring her teeth like she did with you. “Yes! Look. It’s very wiggly.”

He peers closely, gentle fingers on her chin. You watch his face soften even more, if that’s possible. “Ah,” he says. “Classic exfoliation of the lower central incisor.”

“Ex-fol-ation?” she asks, eyebrows raised quizzically.

“Exfoliation. It’s dental terminology. Just a fancy way to say it’s normal for your tooth to be loose. It’s part of a natural biological process in which—”

“Daddy.”

He chuckles. “Yes. It’s very wiggly.”

JJ and Emily wander over from the conference room, drawn by the chaos.

“What’s this I hear about a loose tooth?” JJ asks, eyes lighting up. “Henry lost his first one when he was six. He was so excited for the tooth fairy.”

Margot frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t really know if she’s real yet,” she tells JJ. “I have to do more research.”

Emily lifts an eyebrow. “Research?”

“She’s concerned about the logistics,” you explain. “Locked doors. Tooth storage. Sanitation.”

Penelope clutches her chest. “Oh, she’s just like her father.”

Your husband gives you a look. You know the story from his mother: six-year-old Spencer standing up in class to calmly announce that the tooth fairy was both “logistically implausible” and “economically unsound.”

“Hey, I’m proud,” he says now, smoothing a curl behind Margot’s ear. “Healthy skepticism is important.”

“Healthy belief is, too,” you remind him, nudging his leg with yours.

He sighs, caught. “Yes. That also.”

Margot twists to look at him. “Daddy, do you think the tooth fairy is real?”

Several pairs of adult eyes swing to him, interested.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that when I was a kid, I couldn’t make sense of it. I didn’t like the idea of someone coming into my room while I was asleep. And I didn’t understand why she would want teeth. It felt…silly.”

Margot nods, pleased. “That’s what I said!”

“But,” he continues, “just because something is hard to understand, that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. There are a lot of things we can’t measure easily but still see the effects of.” He taps the tip of her nose.

She squints at him. “So you believe in her?”

“I haven't personally observed her, but I've seen her work. Too many kids get too many teeth turned into surprises for it to be random. So, yes. I think she's real. Just... working with rules we don't know yet."

Margot thinks about this, brow furrowing.

“That makes sense I guess. But… if the tooth fairy is actually you and Mommy, you can tell me. I’m big. I can handle it.”

Morgan snorts. Emily covers a smile with her hand.

Spencer looks like he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. “You don’t have to decide what you believe right now,” he tells her. “You can hope she might be real but also question the logistics. That’s allowed.”

She huffs. “I’m going to make a list,” she announces. “Evidence of the tooth fairy.”

Garcia claps her hands like it’s the best idea she’s ever heard. “I’ll give you some stickers to decorate it!”

Spencer catches your eye over Margot’s head with a look so warm and amused and full of love it almost knocks you over. You give him a knowing smile, because you don’t have to be a profiler to read what that look means: this is what he always wanted. You, Margot, and this life, full of gentle complications like tooth fairy plausibility and loose teeth.

—

Two nights later, you’re in the kitchen drying dishes when a shriek tears through the house:

“DADDY!”

You nearly drop a plate. Spencer is off the couch before you can react, book discarded, socks sliding on the hardwood as he sprints down the hall.

You follow at a slightly more dignified pace.

He’s kneeling by the bathroom sink when you reach them, one hand on Margot’s shoulder, the other hovering near her mouth. There’s a tiny smear of pink in the running water, a minuscule white tooth on the countertop.

“Hey, hey,” he says, voice soft and steady. “You’re okay. Breathe for me.”

Her eyes are huge and wet. “It fell out,” she says, sounding betrayed. “It fell out of my face when I was brushing my teeth!”

You bite back a laugh. “That it did.”

“Is there a hole?” she demands. “Is it bleeding? Am I going to die?”

Spencer’s mouth twitches. “You’re absolutely not going to die. There is a small hole, and it’s bleeding a little. That’s normal. Your body pushed the old tooth out to make room for the new one.”

She sniffles. “It feels weird.”

“I know,” he says. He wets a washcloth with cool water. “Here. Bite down on this for a minute. It’ll help.”

She obeys, clutching Sir Reginald to her chest with one arm.

Spencer plucks the tooth carefully from the counter, holding it up between finger and thumb. He looks at it like it’s a precious gem.

“Wow,” he murmurs. “First one.”

You watch his face. There’s a whole universe in that look: pride, nostalgia, a flicker of something sad. You slip your hand into his free one and squeeze.

“Big day, huh?” you say quietly.

He squeezes back, eyes still on the tooth. “Yeah,” he says. “Big day.”

Margot spits the washcloth into the sink and pokes her tongue through the new gap between her teeth. “I don’t like it,” she declares. “It feels wrong.”

“It’ll feel normal eventually,” you promise. “Your brain just needs a minute to get used to it, but you won’t even notice it soon.”

Spencer smiles faintly. “Exactly. It’s actually called neuroplasticity, which is a process by which our brains rewire their neural connections, enabling them to adapt in response to changes such as learning a new skill, experiencing environmental shifts, recovering from injury, or—”

“Daddy,” Margot groans.

“Sorry,” he laughs, bending to kiss the top of her head. “You get to decide what we do with this,” he adds, holding up the tooth. “We can keep it in a little box in your room. Or…”

“Or the tooth fairy,” she finishes for him, eyes narrowing.

“Or the tooth fairy,” he agrees.

She glances between the tooth, Sir Reginald, and the two of you. You can practically see the gears turning in her brain.

“Do I have to believe in her for her to come?” she asks.

Spencer considers. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I think you just have to be open to the possibility that something magical might happen.”

You bump his arm lightly. “Look at you,” you murmur. “Team Magic.”

He gives you a tiny, helpless smile. “I’m trying.”

Margot chews her lip, then straightens her shoulders. “Okay,” she says. “We’ll try the tooth fairy. For science.”

You and Spencer exchange a look.

“For science?” you ask.

“Well, I need to know what happens,” she explains. “I’m still collecting data.”

Spencer’s eyes sparkle. “That’s my girl.”

—

At the small desk in her bedroom, Margot carefully tucks the tooth into an envelope from Spencer’s office. He prints “MARGOT REID – BABY TOOTH 1” on the front in neat block letters.

Then Margot pulls out her favorite purple pen and a piece of paper.

“I’m going to write a letter to go with my tooth,” she announces. “To see if the fairy responds.”

You sit on the edge of her bed while she hunches over the desk, tongue between her teeth, painstakingly writing each letter as clearly as she can and occasionally pausing to ask for help with spelling. She’s proud of every line.

“Read it to us?” you ask when she’s done.

She clears her throat and does.

Dear Tooth Fairy, This is my first lost tooth. Take good care of it. P.S. Please explain what you do with all the teeth and how you get into houses without breaking and entering. Thank you. Love, Margot Diana Reid, age 5 ¾ (and Sir Reginald Goosebury III)

You’re pretty sure this is not in the standard language for a note to a fairy, but it’s very her.

Spencer looks like he’s trying not to cry and laugh at the same time. “That’s an excellent letter, Margoose,” he says. “Very clear questions.”

She beams, then folds the paper into quarters and tucks it into the envelope with the tooth. Together, the three of you slide it under her pillow.

She crawls into bed, hugging Sir Reginald close. Her nightlight throws soft stars on the wall.

“Are you sure nobody bad can come in?” she asks quietly.

“I’m sure,” Spencer says, voice steady. “No bad guys will ever get into our house. The only people allowed in your room are me, Mommy, and maybe a very polite fairy who leaves money.”

“And Sir Reginald,” she adds.

“And Sir Reginald, of course,” he agrees.

She studies him, then nods, apparently satisfied. “Okay,” she whispers. “I’m going to try to believe. For real, not just for science.”

You lean over and kiss her forehead. “That’s all anyone can do,” you say. “Goodnight, lovebug.”

“Goodnight, Mommy. Goodnight, Daddy. Goodnight, Sir Reginald,” she murmurs with a yawn.

The goose, naturally, says nothing.

—

Later, in the kitchen, you sit at the table while Spencer pulls a small notepad from the drawer. He smooths a page down like he’s about to start a report.

“You’re really going to write back,” you say, watching him.

“She asked very good questions,” he says. “It would be rude not to.”

He thinks for a long moment, pen hovering, then begins to write in a looping script that’s intentionally nothing like his usual handwriting.

When he’s finished, he turns the pad so you can read.

Dear Margot (and Sir Reginald), Thank you for the excellent tooth. I can tell you brushed it very well. No, I do not break into houses. Your parents keep you very safe. I only visit when I’m invited, and I use magic to get inside. I use all the teeth to build stars in the sky. (This is a secret only very curious kids like you get to know.) Keep asking good questions. They make the world more interesting. Love, The Tooth Fairy

Your throat does an embarrassing little wobble.

“That’s really sweet,” you say, voice low. “Stars, huh?”

He shrugs, a little self-conscious. “I thought she might like the idea that when she looks up, she can see pieces of herself.”

You lean over and kiss him, slow and appreciative. “You’re kind of ridiculous,” you murmur against his mouth. “In a perfect way.”

“Comes with the territory,” he says softly, “of loving you two this much.”

You smile, following him down the hall with the note and a folded five dollar bill in his hand.

In Margot’s room, you move like you’ve practiced this a thousand times — gentle, careful, quiet. Spencer lifts the edge of her pillow while you slide the envelope out. He tucks the money and note underneath, smoothing the pillow back into place.

She sighs in her sleep, rolling toward Sir Reginald. The gap in her teeth makes her look impossibly young and weirdly grown up at the same time.

You both stand there for a long second, just looking at her.

Then you retreat to the hallway and Spencer lets out a slow breath.

“Magic achieved,” he says softly.

“Good. Tooth fairy’s off duty now,” you say, tugging him toward your bedroom by his tie. “And I think I owe the tooth fairy a thank you,” you murmur.

He comes willingly, eyes bright and fond and a little mischievous. “Funny, I was just thinking the tooth fairy owes you one.”

—

The next morning, Margot barrels into your room before your alarm even has a chance to think about ringing.

“She came!” she yells, launching onto the bed between you. “Mommy, Daddy, she came!”

You blink awake to a faceful of curls and goose.

“Oh, she did?” you mumble.

She thrusts a crumpled five-dollar bill into your hand, then waves the folded note in front of Spencer’s face.

“And a letter,” she says breathlessly. “Look, Daddy. She even answered my questions!”

He reaches for his glasses on the nightstand and slides them on. “Want to read it to us?”

She nods, sitting up against the headboard and squinting at the paper.

“Dear Margot (and Sir Reginald Goosebury the Third),” she reads carefully. “Thank you for the excellent tooth. I can tell you brushed it very well.” She pauses to beam at you. “She noticed!”

“She did,” you say, heart stupidly full. “You’ve been brushing like a champ.”

Margot goes on.

“No, I do not break into houses. Your parents keep you very safe. I only visit when I’m invited, and I use magic to get inside.” Her voice goes a little soft on that line. “I use all the teeth to build stars in the sky. This is a secret, so only very curious kids get to know.” She gasps, eyes wide. “Daddy, she said she builds stars!”

He watches her, something luminous in his expression. “What do you think?”

Margot’s gaze flicks to the window, to the ceiling, like she might see new constellations popping into existence above your bed.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that sounds scientifically suspicious.”

You snort into your pillow.

Spencer bites back a smile. “Suspicious how?”

“Teeth are made of calcium,” she says, very sure of herself. “Stars are mostly gas. So that doesn’t make sense.” She pauses. “But I like it. I want to believe it.”

“You’re allowed to believe in things that don’t always make perfect sense,” you remind her. “The world would be really boring if everything was tidy.”

She chews her lip, thinking. Then she nods, a decision settling over her.

“Okay,” she says. “I believe her. For real. Not just for science.”

Spencer’s eyebrows lift. “You do?”

She nods again, more firmly this time. “Maybe she really is magic and that’s why science is weird. And maybe magic is just science we don’t understand yet.” She hugs Sir Reginald close. “And I like that my tooth is a star now. That’s…that’s nice.”

Your chest actually hurts.

Spencer looks at her like she hung every star herself. Like this tiny, gap-toothed girl and her ridiculous goose are the best things that have ever happened to him.

You reach across the tangle of blankets and goose wings to lace your fingers with his.

“Pretty good outcome, huh?” you say quietly.

He squeezes your hand, eyes bright. “Yeah,” he says. “Pretty good.”

Margot slides off the bed, chattering about what she’s going to buy with her tooth fairy money and which classmates she’s going to tell first. Sir Reginald dangles from her arm, bowtie askew.

You watch her go, then look back at Spencer — the sleepy hair, the soft smile, the way he’s still holding your hand like he’ll never quite get over the fact that he gets to.

“If anyone asks,” you say, “I’m absolutely bragging about being married to the tooth fairy.”

He huffs a laugh. “I’m definitely bragging that I married someone who believes in her,” he counters.

You roll your eyes, but your heart does that annoying, wonderful twist again.

Loose teeth, star stories, a goose in a bowtie, and Spencer Reid pressed warm against your side — it’s not the kind of magic you can chart or quantify the way your daughter would like, but even so, you believe in it completely.

ᝰ.ᐟ

“What’s this?” You ask as you accept the offered glass; your mouth falling dry as you watch the condensation shift and bead under your touch. 

“Water.” He explains easily, and though the simplicity of his answers serves to make you feel silly for asking, his tone never indicates that he finds you silly at all. “You’re a little dehydrated.” 

You suppress a shiver as the water washes over your mouth and nearly half the glass is gone by the time you come back up for air. “I am?” 

Again, you feel silly for asking, because now that you have the glass in your hands you have no interest in letting it go. In fact, you’re just beginning to wonder how much effort it would be to go grab the Brita from the fridge when Spencer stands up and heads back to the kitchen.

“Yeah, lovely. I topped up the Brita this morning before I left for the office but there wasn’t much missing from it when I returned. Increased fluid intake during pregnancy is crucial for both you and the baby. It’s a key component of the amniotic fluid and you also have increased blood supply right now so staying hydrated is important to avoid dizziness or constipation.” You hardly have a moment to flush at him speaking so candidly about the quality of your bowel movements when he carries on. 

“Your metabolic rate is increased as well and adequate fluid intake helps regulate your body temperature. Have you noticed yourself experiencing many hot flashes today?”

You pull the glass away from your face when you realize you’re holding it to your – admittedly clammy – cheek. Spencer returns to the living room with the Brita in hand, gesturing for you to raise your glass which he quickly refills for you.  

Once you’ve inhaled another half a glass of water, Spencer finally exposes three tablets he’d been carrying in his hand. 

“My vitamins.” You acknowledge somewhat dumbly, a weight settling in your throat that’s painful to swallow around. “I…I can’t believe I forgot.” 

Spencer lets out a hum of acknowledgement as he reclaims his seat beside you, not a lick of judgement about him which only serves to make your shame increase tenfold somehow. 

You’re just about to retreat into a familiar internal downward spiral when you’re distracted by Spencer saying your name.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, and he looks so concerned – so earnest in his worry – that the sob sort of startles out of you with no preamble. 

“What am I doing?” You ask rhetorically, hands flying out from you helplessly. “I…I’m not even doing anything yet and I’m already failing!”

“No. No, no. You’re not failing. You-”

“I can’t even realize that I’m thirsty let alone remember to take my damn pills! I mean, what the hell? If I can’t even take care of myself now, how am I going to take care of a baby? I’m a terrible mother already.” 

Spencer stands abruptly which causes guilt to surge up your sternum from your belly button, forcing more tears down your cheeks as he carefully kneels on the ground in front of you. 

“You are not a terrible mother. No- wait, just listen to me. You say you’re ‘not even doing anything’ as though you aren’t quite literally growing an entire brand new person from scratch right now. I’m serious! You’ve taken, what? Some measly cells that I’ve offered you and combined them with your own before altering your entire body and chemistry to help it grow? That’s not nothing.”

The uncharacteristic simplicity of his explanation of procreation and referring to the very intimate moment the two of you shared a little over eight months ago as “offering you some measly cells” sees you letting out a surprised, wet laugh. He smiles in response. 

“That’s not nothing.” He repeats softly.

“I just feel so stupid.” You admit quietly. “I didn’t think this baby brain would cause me to miss actual survival cues from my body. I mean, seriously, Spencer? I couldn’t even recognize my own thirst?”

His eyes dart all over your face as though he might be able to dive into your mind's eye and force you see things from his point of view if only he tried hard enough.

“Baby brain isn’t nothing either, love. And it doesn’t make you stupid. The cause of ‘pregnancy brain’ isn’t necessarily fully understood but there are so many hormonal changes happening in your body right now. Estrogen, progesterone, prolactin and hPL can all impact brain function; particularly the amygdala, hippocampus, and the pre-frontal cortex which are responsible for memory, attention, and emotional regulation. 

“If that wasn’t enough, you’ve been more than a little uncomfortable lately which makes sleep next to impossible, paired with the fact that so much of your metabolic energy is going towards growing and sustaining new life, your brain can hardly be faulted for getting the figurative short end of the stick right now.” 

He inches closer to you from his place on the floor, one hand raising to wipe at the slowly drying tear tracks on your face. 

“You’ve been doing plenty of things for yourself and the baby that I’m so proud of you and eternally grateful for.” 

You huff a self deprecating laugh. “Like what?”

“Like” Spencer starts with an encouraging smile “you’ve been keeping your stress levels low. Staying off of your phone when you realized it was contributing to some of your anxiety. Participating in relaxing activities like watching low-stakes shows and catching up on reading. You’re not over-working yourself and resting an adequate amount to make up for your aches and pains plus the general lack of sleep. You’ve been working so hard this whole pregnancy to balance eating, ensuring you have both what the baby wants plus what the both of you need. You’re abundantly prepared for the baby’s arrival. You’re a wonderful mother.” 

You’re both surprised when another sob bubbles out of you. 

“I can imagine it’s hard when you feel like your brain is operating at a reduced level, and I probably don’t help with the way my brain generally operates at a faster rate than the average person’s. But that isn’t because you’re stupid or because you’re not doing enough. You’re doing plenty; you’re doing so much. And I’m so thankful that you’re taking care of yourself and our baby,” he pauses as he brushes a hand over your ever-rounding bump, sharing a shy smile with you, “and I am beyond selfishly pleased at getting to take care of the both of you.” 

The two of you stay like that for a while – you, folded into the couch as one of his hands holds your own, his other drawing shapes into your stomach as he kneels before you. 

“You really think I’m doing an okay job?” Your question barely above a whisper into the quiet of the room as though you’re afraid of the answer. 

“No. I think you’re doing a wonderful job. Perfect, really. I have no complaints other than you being a little too hard on yourself, but that’s nothing I can’t help with.” 

“I’m glad you’re here with me.” You tell him. “I’m glad I’m doing this with you.”

The confession – though not the first time shared with him – seems to surprise him for some reason. “Yeah?”

Your responding ‘yes’ is a mixture of a breathy laugh and a sob before you pull him up to you, trying to infuse as much of your love into the kiss as you can though neither of you can stop smiling long enough to do more than simply press your lips together. 

Thankfully, that seems to be more than enough for both of you.

The air is warm like the coffee in your hand. It wraps around you like a soft blanket and holds you tight. It’s the kind of feeling you get after sleeping in until nine o’clock.

Three years ago you would’ve laughed at the prospect of nine ever being considered early. Now you’re grateful for a morning as late as seven.

You take a step toward the door of your daughter’s room. The three year old turns to you and smiles. So does her dad.

Spencer sits, or rather, squats at her small princess table, hands sprawled across the surface. Your daughter holds a paintbrush in her hand.

“Mommy!” she cries happily. “Look what I did!”

Your eyes find the artful masterpiece that is her father—her fathers hands, that is. The skin is covered in various colours, small flowers and suns drawn around each finger. Your face brightens and you give a proud, “wow!”

“I look great, don’t I?” says Spencer.

“Very.”

His hands rest on the pink table, almost taking up the whole thing. Your daughter’s fingers maneuver his to her liking. “Daddy so pretty,” she giggles.

“He’s very pretty! How about I get you some breakfast while daddy cleans up, okay, baby?” you suggest softly.

With a nod, she agrees and takes your hand.

It isn’t often you get to enjoy your mornings slowly, sans toddler waking you. But, with a husband like Spencer, these dawns come more frequently than other women in your position. So every time you get even a blink of extra sleep, you know it’s due to your husband’s efficiency in the redirection of your child. Every where’s mommy? met with a did you know that….

You watch Spencer wash his hands of the paint in the kitchen sink, keeping one eye on the three-year-old. She spins in the living room, finding much amusement in how her dress floats with every turn. 

“What time did she wake you up?”

He grabs the towel hanging on the cupboard. “Oh, she didn’t.”

Your eyebrow raises.

“I was already up,” he mutters because he already knows what you’re about to say.

“Why aren’t you sleeping? I told you to wake me up next time you can’t sleep.” You brush a curl behind his ear. 

A small half laugh leaves him.

“And what would you do? I’d just be keeping you awake for the sake of making you suffer with me.”

“Maybe I could’ve found a way to get you back to sleep…” you shrug.

The tip of his nose and the apples of his cheeks turn pink. 

“I didn’t mean that!”

They say giving birth is one of the most profound and life changing events in a woman’s life. They are right, you suppose, whoever they might be—though you also think that any experience that requires you to push out an entire human being out of your vagina is bound to be profound in some way or another.  

You’d been warned about the pain. The exhaustion. The tearing—God, the tearing. But what no one tells you is how stupidly, hopelessly in love you’d be with this squishy, slightly alien-looking creature they placed on your chest like a half-baked loaf of bread. Yours. All yours—and Spencer’s, sure. Though you’re not entirely sure you even want to share her with your husband.  

Spencer, bless his soul, doesn’t even seem bothered by your blatant hoarding of affection. If anything, he encourages it—watches you with that dopey, heart-eyes expression he usually reserves for rare books and obscure chess maneuvers. Sometimes you catch him staring, chin propped on his hand, completely transfixed as you rock her, hum to her, whisper nonsense into the fuzz of her little head. He looks at you like you’re magic. Like you invented her. 

Maybe, in a way, you did. Though, it was a joint effort, of course. 

You glance over at Spencer, who’s perched on the edge of the bed, his lanky frame slightly hunched forward, eyes soft and warm. He reaches out with one careful finger to trace the tiny curve of her cheek, as if memorizing the feel of her skin all over again. 

“She’s perfect,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with awe. “She’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” Then, as if he’s suddenly aware, “No offence, honey.” 

“None taken,” you laugh softly, your eyes filling with tears again. “She really is. I didn’t know love could feel this way — like your heart might burst if you look at her too long.” 

Spencer nods, his smile tender. “I read somewhere that when babies are born, their parents’ brains release oxytocin. It’s what makes you feel... connected, protective. Kind of like an emotional superglue.” 

You glance down at the tiny bundle nestled against your chest, her eyes fluttering shut as she snuggles closer. “Well, whatever it is, I’m addicted.” 

He laughs quietly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss on your forehead. “We’ve been running on adrenaline and coffee for the last forty-eight hours,” Spencer murmurs, voice low as he presses his lips to your temple. “But somehow… I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” 

You laugh, the sound soft and sleepy. “Coffee’s a close second to this,” you whisper, brushing a kiss across the baby’s tiny fist. She squirms, arms flailing, and lets out a delicate squeak—her very first protest against being still. Your heart jumps. 

Spencer’s eyes light up. “I think she wants to be held again,” he says, scooping her up with a gentle confidence that surprises you. 

You fold into him, leaning your head on his shoulder, watching as he settles her in the crook of his arm. She blinks up at him, wide-eyed and curious, and he stretches a finger toward her mouth. She wraps her whole hand around it, and Spencer’s breath catches. 

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ve got a grip,” he marvels, voice thick with adoration. “You’re not letting go, are you?” 

She doesn’t. She squeezes harder, and Spencer chuckles, tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes. “It’s okay,” you say, slipping your hand into his. “It’s exactly what we want.” 

He nods, his eyes never leaving her small, determined hand. “What a strong little girl,” he whispers, as if saying the word aloud makes it more real. 

You smile against his chest, the warmth of the moment washing over you. Outside, life goes on, but in this room, time has slowed, bending around the three of you like a soft, protective bubble. “She’s going to grow up so fast,” you say softly. Then, as if what you’ve just said sets in, you inhale a shaky breath, unable to stop your bottom lip from wobbling and your eyes from filling up with tears. “Oh God, Spencer, she’s going to grow up so fast.” 

Spencer, being the prepared genius he is, is absolutely aware of the fact that your post-partum hormones being all over the place. So, instead of freaking out about unstoppable time with you, even though he’s going to freak out about it later on his own, gently brushes his hand over your hair as he gently speaks. “And we’re going to be there for her, all the time.”  

You sniffle, leaning into the reassuring warmth of his hand, letting his calm steady you. “I just want to savor every second,” you whisper. “The quiet moments, the messy ones... even the ones where I don’t get any sleep.” 

Spencer smiles softly, his eyes full of unwavering certainty. “We will. Every late-night feeding, every first step, every bedtime story—we’ll be there. And she is going to grow up to be an amazing little girl.” 

You lift your gaze to meet his, softly chuckling through your tears, “She won’t be so little when she grows up, Spence.” 

Spencer sighs softly as he takes his eyes off of the baby in his arms to meet yours, “She’ll always be our little baby.” 

Spencer had gotten up with you at five this morning and your queasiness showed no sign of faltering. Your stomach had nothing left to give by the time you went to your doctor’s appointment, but you assured your husband that you were fine when you arrived in Quantico after having your blood drawn.

The issue was that no one knew. Other than Hotch – for obvious personal safety reasons – no members of the BAU were aware that you were pregnant. It started as wariness, wanting to reach a certain milestone before letting your team know, but it quickly turned into a different form of anxiety. You hadn’t let your team know you were even talking about having a baby. Neither of you were entirely sure how to broach the subject or announce your pregnancy, so you didn’t.

Hidden in plain sight, resting on Spencer’s desk was a sonogram, a three-by-five, black-and-white photo of your baby, the two of you were simply waiting for a profiler observant enough to notice. You weren’t showing, yet, as you encroached upon the second trimester, you worried you were running out of time.

His theory was that your nausea was being exacerbated by low blood sugar, which is why he made sure to give you orange juice – you weren’t so convinced, orange juice was brutal coming back out.

You heard the familiar woosh of the glass doors to the bullpen swing as someone entered, the click-clack of Garcia’s heels snapping you back to attention, it was almost time for morning debrief. If you were lucky, you’d remain at your desk for the rest of the day. If your luck ran out, you’d have to pop a Zofran before getting on the jet.

Sighing, you rested your chin in your hand before going back to clicking through your emails, pausing for just a moment when Spencer reached across the short barrier between your desks and opened the bottle for you. To appease him, you took a small sip of the orange juice, pleased when you saw him settle in his desk chair.

“What’s that?” Garcia asked, nearly stumbling to a stop behind Spencer’s desk as her eyes snagged on something on the surface. “No, no I know what that is,” she continued, stammering and flicking her eyes between you and Spencer.

Penelope’s rising voice garnered the attention of other people in the bullpen, bringing them to your and Spencer’s adjacent desks. “What’s wrong, baby girl?” Derek piped up, making his way over and setting a hand on the back of your chair.

Pointing at you, the technical analyst wagged her finger as she made the connections in her brain. The doctor’s appointments and the sudden aversion to girl’s night made sense to her now, and you could see it in the way her gaze softened when she stepped around the desks in order to give you a hug, “Is that real?”

As you reciprocated her hug, you nodded, glancing over at your husband as you knew your secret was now out. “Yeah,” you mumbled into her blonde hair, “It’s real.”

“Would somebody please tell me what’s going on?” Morgan said, looking around, sharing a confused look with Emily but earning a ‘dude, really?’ look from JJ.

Releasing you from the hug, Penelope reached over the acrylic barrier, plucked the sonogram off Spencer’s desk, and presented it to the rest of the team Vanna White style, “Baby genius is imminent!” She announced, beaming at you and Spencer as you snuck around them to stand at his side.

One by one, Emily, JJ, and Derek embraced both you and Spencer, “Wait, how long has that picture been there?” Emily questioned, arching a dark brow at you and Spencer.

“Two weeks,” Spencer answered quickly, snaking an arm around you and resting a hand on your hip, squeezing it reassuringly.

You leaned into him slightly before nodding in affirmation, “Yeah, some profilers you guys are!”

Rolling his eyes, Morgan came back at you for another hug, holding you so tightly that your feet lifted slightly off the ground. “Woah, hey, be careful,” Spencer said, waiting expectantly for your coworker to let you go.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped back to where Spencer was standing while Emily spoke again, “Oh, he’s going to be insufferable by the end of this.”