Sitting in the doctor's office waiting to hear his results was nerve wracking, he was cleanish. He hadn't taken anything for almost three weeks but that it called to him, that he was always so close to the edge didn't make him feel he had beaten it. He had heard that addictions were managed never cured, but somewhere and somehow he thought he would be special, be able to overcome this so thorough and completely.

The first support group he had joined had been for young professionals, they talked about thinking they were 'too smart to get addicted' or how they be trading millions in stock why high as a kite. They started drugs because they bored, it was almost as if this group was another way for them show off and be trendy. Spencer hated them, and he knew he was thinking like them, I'm too smart for this', 'I'm special' but to face the idea of craving for the rest of his life, of there being one more constant battle, it scared him too much to think about.

He was much happier at his other group, in the 'bad' part of town. It was full of desperate people with desperate feelings and stories. He respected them. But he held back, knowing that once knowledge of his job came out he wouldn't be forced to leave per se but he would have to. He didn't want to make the rest of them uncomfortable or give them a reason not to go.

It was at this group that Spencer finally registered that he would have to face, at least some of the consequences. So he was waiting, trying to read the facial expressions of his doctor as she read through his notes. She was the one who called him out on his addiction. She was a medical professional, she didn't know the circumstance, and quite frankly didn't care, she only wanted him healthy. She wasn't connected to the bureau and would never disclose anything to anyone ever.

When he had come in a week ago explaining while he was here her relief was palatable and once again Spencer could see it. He was clear of HPV, Hepatitis, Herpes, Syphilis, the list went on ending in HIV, although that would have to be checked again in six months. She then frowned and looked up at Spencer, "why didn't you tell me you're pregnant?"

"Because I'm not."

Her frowned deepened, "Spencer these result are conclusive, when did you last have sex?"

That was a loaded question, the last time he remembered having sex was about seven months ago, the last time he woke up and found evidence of him having sex was three months ago. He sat there in silence not really sure on what to say. She didn't sigh or judge him but she got down to business, and man was this why he kept her.

"Dr. Smith is an excellent doctor, his speciality is obstetrics, I'm booking you in for an emergency appointment for later today, we need to see what, if any, damage the foetus has suffered." Spencer just nodded and left her office. He sat in a MacDonald's sipping at the coffee, trying not to be violently ill.

Dr Smith was an unassuming ginger man who respected Spencer as soon as his came in. He could see the fear in the young man but he was holding himself together, this was clearly unexpected and unplanned. The man had gotten himself clean and in Doctor Smith's eyes that was an achievement to be proud of. Spencer also hadn't made an issue of him being a dwarf, some patients got uncomfortable, 'doctor cure thyself' they would think, not releasing there was nothing to cure- Doctor Smith was happy with himself. But Spencer Reid he could see was suffering.

Emotionally not every pregnancy was a happy one, as a doctor Smith knew that babies weren't bundles of joys to be immediately celebrated. Some people just needed time to think through and assess, and others needed abortions. Doctor Smith prided himself in responding to the patient's needs. After some small talk, and general health background, Smith did an ultra-scan. The baby was small and the lungs under developed but overall healthy considering. Spencer gasped, Smith didn't presume to know what the man was thinking and so stood quietly to give him time to verbalise.

"I'm about 32 weeks along." He was eight months pregnant, but it wasn't practical things run along Spencer's mind but that stupid show he had watched the night before. He had watched 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant' in horrid fascination and all he could remember was a young blonde woman announcing with an almost delighted glee how earlier that week she had watched the show.

The doctor realising Spencer needed time turned off the machine, and went over to do something on his computer. Eight months was far too late for an abortion, had he been within the time limit he would have. He wasn't ready for a baby. He wasn't sure even wanted any, he was alone, he didn't know who the other father was. He would have to leave his job. What would the team say or do. They'd be delighted, they'd circle the wagons but did he want them to? Now when the news was 'good' now would be when they'd help him.

Adoption then, he didn't want this thing. He thought about the letter he'd write- 'it's not you it's me. No really, I'm a fuck up, I won't be able to look after you. Nothing personal, enjoy the system.' He never written a Dear John letter but he thought that was a bad example. Maybe they'd get a fantastic family who would love them and they'd grow up to be president but most likely not. Even if they did get a good family what would happen when they find out, find him. Not that that's a good enough reason to keep a kid. He couldn't do it; he had seen the worst of the system.

He couldn't keep it, he couldn't abort it, and he couldn't give it away. Spencer Reid sat there and cried. What the fuck could he do?

Done with his pity party Spencer composed himself. When he was ready he faced the doctor who gave him a brief smile. "Your addiction and then rehab appear to have hidden your pregnancy symptoms. The foetus is underdeveloped and so you wouldn't have shown much, recent weight gain was attributed to your rehab?"

Spencer nodded; he let the doctor talk just thinking about how lucky he was. Due to the drugs he was at higher risk of premature birth, he was luckily that he hadn't already gone into labour. He shuddered at the thought of unknowingly going into labour while at work. The idea of a baby popping out in the middle of a gun battle with an unsub. Although it wasn't that funny Spencer began to giggle. The idea driving him into laughter and then a need to be sick, he was having a baby.

The doctor had seemed to be good at reading him and so had brought a bucket into which Spencer heaved. He had done a lot of this over the past couple of months in his battle to get off drugs but this time was worse. This time there would still be a thing inside him.

Once he was finished Spencer looked up pleadingly to the doctor, he didn't care how small and scared his voice sounded "please, just get it out of me."

Doctor Smith looked at the young man in front of him. He was small, tired, and scared, and there was nothing the doctor could do to help. "I'm sorry Spencer. I don't want to induce the birth. I want her to have as much time a possible inside the womb."

Spencer just stared at the doctor eyes burning, blinking quickly in the hope that it would stop the tears. He swallowed around the lump in his throat a few time before he was able to speak. "I understand." He whispered, listening to the doctor rattle off prescriptions and medical advice.

He left an hour later feeling numb. He still had no idea what to do. The burning desire for the bliss of shooting up the only thing he could think about. But he wasn't about to let the thing inside of him ruin his life even more. So he went to the pharmacy, picked up what he needed. Soon he was at home cooking a roast veg lasagne. The act of chopping, and stirring stopping Spencer from thinking.

He had just put the leftovers in the freezer and done the washing up when he received a call. A serial arsonist was on the loose in San Francisco. He took his pre-natal vitamins with him, but other than that while on the case he left himself forget.

He was unlucky that contractions stared on the plane back. But lucky that labour lasts for fucking hours and was able to go home, pick up a clean go bag and then get to hospital. Doctor Smith was on call and unsurprised that Spencer was going into premature labour.

Ten hours into labour it was decided a C-section was needed, labour was causing the baby distress. As the Foley catheter was inserted Spencer looked up at Smith, "please," he begged, "please no opiates."

Smith smiled, "You've already had an epidural, and I'm just topping it up. Trust me, you're fine Spencer."

Spencer despite being awake didn't really remember the procedure. All he would recall was being wheeled out and told his daughter had been rushed to the neonatal intensive care unit.

He recovered from his surgery quickly. And within a fortnight he was back at work. Nobody in the team questioned his suddenly vacation time. There was a small issue with the Russian mob, and Spencer used it to not think about incubators and tiny babies.

It was only after he got back from that case that he visited his daughter. She was tiny and the nurses understood some parents didn't like to get attached until there was a chance the baby would live. He didn't know what he was feeling, he took pictures of her, gave her a blue teddy bear and thought about names. He told her about his work, and just stared.

He had a sick daughter, she couldn't breathe on her own and she was so small it hurt. Spencer didn't have a rush of love, but he did feel compassion for her. She was his responsibility, and he needed to make sure she had the best life possible.

It was while he was away in Idaho that he realised. He called the hospital four times every day, he thought about her, and he imagined taking her to the park, being at her school recitals. Somehow he was starting to see himself as her father. She had wormed her way in and all she had done was sleep and breathe through a tube.

She was a month old when Spencer named her. She was so tiny and pink he named her Claire Rose, after the flower. He thought it poetic, the rose, a beautiful yet tough and dangerous flower. It fit her perfectly.

He felt the moment that he really knew that somehow he would keep her and love her, was when he registered her birth. Writing the letter as to why only one parent was signing the forms was difficult, but he was able to do it.

She was four months old when Spencer was allowed to first hold her. She was finally strong enough to come out of the incubator for a short time. He held and sang her song his mother used to sing to him. The nurse laughed at his terrible voice, and took lots of pictures.

Spencer still hadn't informed the bureau of his change of circumstance, he hadn't let the team know. He knew that when he would be able to bring her home he would find a new job, but until then he carried on. For now he wanted his baby, and shit his brain still stuttered to a stop at that, he wanted his child to himself for a while longer.

Spencer was only just coming to terms with the idea with fatherhood, it was too soon to share it.

In later years he would find it ironic that they left at the same time. He had just found a note from Gideon when the hospital called him. Claire Rose was in serious trouble. She died a week after contracting TB. She was five months old.

Spencer just was, he couldn't. During labour when he was told that she was in distress he was secretly glad, he wanted her to die. He didn't want a child, especially under those circumstances. But after five months of watching her, and processing he could admit that he was falling in love with her. That he did want to be her father.

And now she had died and he didn't. He didn't know what to think or to do. He wanted to approach Hotch but he was bogged down with troubles from both his wife and missing Gideon. Emily was too new. It would break Garcia's heart and Morgan would be just as lost as Spencer.

It was Doctor Smith who he approached for help. They sat in a KFC, the smell of fried chicken making Spencer ill. The doctor listened, and for now that was all Spencer needed. They kept meeting up over the years. They became friends. Smith was the one who held Spencer's hand as the tiny coffin was hidden behind a curtain. Smith was the one that held onto Spencer as the ashes were buried.

The headstone was simple, and Spencer would visit it regularly. When John became his sponsor it was often here where Spencer could be found.

Sometimes he would worry that it was all a drug fuelled dream, a way his mind tortured him. But then he would look at his phone and see the background picture of him and his daughter and a bittersweet feeling would tear through him.