Spencer Reid/MGG Imagines

pascal pt. 1 ; spr

summary: spencer has had a few late nights at work, which ultimately meant neglecting y/n and their baby. after he returns home, he attempts to console his child, only to find out that his son doesn't recognize him

word count: 1887

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My muscles were in complete repose, my eyes began to flutter against the sudden weight that forced them to shut, and reality around me began to dissipate. I drew in a long breath as I let myself succumb to the peaceful atmosphere of mine and Spencer's bedroom, the moonlight that crept through the window enhancing the serene ambiance. 

I felt the soft fabric of the duvet on the skin of my legs, pulling it over the entirety of my body as I drifted away into a well-deserved slumber. Unfortunately, those plans were unmatched to the wails of my crying son in the nursery next to the bedroom.

I groaned, clutching my head while disdainfully throwing myself up from the bed and dragging myself to where my son laid in distress. Walking into the quaint pastel-colored room, my eyes landed on the clock above the cradle. Exhaustion infiltrated my every move and the fact that the clock read 2:48 am made the occasion less desirable.

"Hey Pascal, hey buddy," I cooed, picking up the small infant that permeated the room with his blaring cries. It was Spencer's idea to name him after his favorite French mathematician. At first, Spencer was definite on naming the baby Schrodinger after the Austrian physicist, which was followed by the explanation of Schrodinger's cat and how that unveiled the misconceptions on Copenhagen's theory of physics. Fortunately for me and the hospital, I was too busy in labor to retaliate by throwing him out of the hospital window for interrupting the birth of our first child with physics history. After a while of deliberation, we both agreed on the name Pascal.

"Shh, it's okay baby, mommy's got you," I reassured, laying him on my chest as I bounced on the heels of my feet while swaying side to side. I hummed the tune of Mozart's Sonata No. 16, the melody subduing the child's relentless howls as I placed him back into the cradle. I refolded the blanket that swaddled Pascal, tucking in any stray pieces that his tiny feet could slip out of. Finally, I walked over to a music box that rested on top of the baby's dresser, winding it to play throughout the remainder of the night to encourage the baby's slumber.

I wish I could be in the same circumstances as Pascal, considering he had a means of going back to sleep. My preferred method was, yet again, staying late at the FBI headquarters to assist in a BAU case.

It felt like the same night had been replaying over and over again for the past 2 weeks. I'd get up to soothe the baby, fall back asleep on a lonesome bed, then wake up to a man that would hurry back to work the second his eyes opened. I and Spencer were becoming estranged, although my concern primarily derived from the possibility of our son not even recognizing his father.

I stumbled back to my room, practically dragging my feet as I tediously made my way back to the comforting sensation of the bed. My entire body screamed for sedation, begging for rest, yet my mind raced with troublesome thoughts about my relationship with Spencer.

My eyes shifted downwards to the emerald ring that Spencer had given me when he proposed. It was the same ring that his mother and grandmother had worn when they were ought to be betrothed. I slouched on the side of the bed, sliding the ring off of my finger and into the drawer of the nightstand, and finally attempted to regain the will of maintaining a decent sleep schedule.

Though with my luck, that was yet to happen due to a loud bang that engulfed the apartment, followed by a string of curse words from Spencer's mouth. With the inclination to investigate battling against my debilitation. I hauled my entire body up off the bed once again to meet Spencer in the living room, where I was met with the view of a lanky boy clutching onto several books that were scattered on the wood floors. If I weren't in an irritated disposition, I would've laughed at the scene displayed in front of me, instead, I mustered up a small 'welcome home' as I squinted at him.