The first time {{user}} didn’t show up to work, Gideon hadn’t thought much of it. They’d been struggling with morning sickness for weeks—he had noticed the subtle signs even before they’d admitted it outright. The way they’d excuse themselves mid-conversation, the exhaustion in their eyes, the way they’d chew on saltine crackers between case briefings. He wasn’t one to pry, but he observed everything. That was his job.

So, when {{user}} called out sick, it wasn’t a surprise. He assumed they were curled up in bed, miserable but fine. They’d be back the next day. Except, they weren’t.

Gideon had just sat down with his coffee when his phone buzzed—a rare, collective text from {{user}} in the BAU’s group chat.

“So, funny thing. I’m in labor.”

For a man who prided himself on reading people, Gideon hadn’t been prepared for the surge of something suspiciously close to panic. He wasn’t family, had no official role in the grand scheme of this event, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing his jacket, ignoring the knowing glances from Hotch and Morgan as he all but stormed out the door.

He arrived at the hospital just as the others did, their team a mix of excitement and barely concealed nerves. There was laughter, murmured speculation, the occasional quip—Garcia dramatically clutching Morgan’s arm, Reid launching into statistics about first-time labor durations before being promptly shushed.

But Gideon didn’t join them. Instead, he found himself outside the hospital room, hands shoved into his pockets, listening to the muffled sounds from inside.

It wasn’t his place to be in there. He told himself that more than once.

And yet, he didn’t leave.

He stood outside that room, unmoving, like a sentinel. Like a father who wouldn’t—couldn’t—admit what this meant to him.