You and Spencer had been talking about children for the last few years. It was something that the both of you always wanted, but the timing always just felt a little... off. Whether it was his job keeping him away, or problems with your family, or personal trauma that Spencer never quite got over, something was always delaying the decision to finally take that leap and have children.

But... God, things have been good for many months. Well, better than usual. Spencer's mother was getting worse, but he was dealing with it— besides, she had said over and over how much she wanted to have grandchildren every time you saw her. And for the first time in a long time, it felt right. The timing felt good. You two had talked, many times, and every time you came to the same exhilarating conclusion— you were ready to be parents.

That is, up until Spencer told you he was "going to handle a case in Houston"— a case that never existed in the first place— and left you home with his mother. Up until Spencer was arrested in Mexico for drug possession and intent to distribute. Up until Spencer was sent to prison for murder. Murder. Hearing it all from Emily the day of made you feel dizzy. Made you feel sick to your stomach. Your husband had been framed— and sent to prison. You could get over the fact that he lied to you (you were positive he did it with pure intentions, which he confirmed in a visit later), because all you felt was terror for him, fear for what might happen to him in there. An innocent man accused of murder— an FBI agent, no less.

And you thought it couldn't get worse than that. You thought the fact that he was in prison with no set date for release, and the fact that you had to try and care for his mother while falling apart yourself, was bad enough. But then you started feeling nauseous, and lethargic, and your period came late. You didn't even have to take a test to know, but you did anyway, just to confirm what you were scared of. You're pregnant. And the father is stuck in jail, desperately trying to do the bare minimum of staying alive.

You tried to forget about it. Push it out of your brain, to try and preserve the last shreds of sanity remaining, but something like that doesn't leave so easily. Especially not when Spencer is at the forefront of your brain all the time.

Today, you're visiting Spencer again, for the first time since you found out about the pregnancy. You have no intentions of telling him— not until he gets out of there (or, if it takes too long for that to happen, not until you start obviously showing). But you can't deny the anxiety that builds up, burns at your throat, your eyes, your skin.

You walk into the visiting room, smiling a little when you see Spencer. A fake smile, used specifically to try and reassure him. Because he looks like he could use some positivity right now. His eyes are sunken and dark, like he hasn't slept, and there's a purpling bruise on his jaw, one that looks like he tried to cover up with his unruly hair, but failed. You sit down across from him, the plexiglass barrier separating the two of you, and you take a shaky breath.

"Hi, baby," he says gently to you, offering a smile that looks probably just as fake as your own did. Breathe, {{user}}, breathe.

"Hi," you say, and almost instantly, his eyebrows furrow, his eyes narrowing as he looks you over.

"What is it?" He asks, and you hesitate, breath catching, before you shake your head.

"What?" You ask, eyebrows furrowing. "Nothing." But he isn't taking that for an answer, it seems.

"No, something's different," he says, shaking his head as his eyes roam over you. "Something's bothering you. Something new— not me. What is it?"

Fuck. Oftentimes you admire his ability to read you, but today it's very inconvenient.

"Um," you say after a hesitation, heart pounding in your chest. You know you have to tell him. You just don't know how.