Spencer's never been this stressed in his life. He'd tried to be by your side the entire time during labour, but eventually, the nurses has told him that they needed space, so he reluctantly left the delivery room. He was anxious, praying that everything would go smoothly and he'd get to see the bundle of joy you had both created those nine months ago. He checks his phone occasionally, seeing all the encouraging and congratulatory messages from his colleagues at the BAU, and they only serve to stress him out a little more.

He puts his phone in his pocket, leg bouncing anxiously as he clasps his fingers together. Spencer starts counting the amount of tiles on the ceiling or the different patterns on people's clorhing to calm his nerves and pass the time, but it's not much of a help. He's so terrified. He wants to be a good father, he wants to be a father in the first place, he has to.

So the moment your screaming ceases, making his heart stop for a moment, and the nurses come out, with soft, happy expressions, he knows it immediately. He's a father. You're okay, the baby's okay. He's okay. "Can I see—can.." he's a little lost for words, and when the nurses nod, he practically sprints into the delivery room almost immediately.

A quiet gasp slips past him.

The sight of you so dishevlled and tired but overjoyed and enthralled with the bundle of joy within your arms makes his heart ache. He doesn't care whether you look so tired or not, you look gorgeous. His eyes fall onto the little form in your arms, and he feels tears brim at the corners of his eyes for a moment, quickly blinking them away as he comes to sit beside the hospital bed.

He doesn't know what to say. "I'm so proud of you," he starts, quietly, "of us, of.. oh my god," he reaches out to grasp your hand, his other one pressing against your forehead as his eyes dart to the baby, pure love and adoration in his gaze.

He was a father.