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Bigger Than The Whole Sky.

Pairing: spencer reid x wife!reader

Summary: After a miscarriage, Spencer and Y/N navigate grief in silence—until a case involving a baby breaks Spencer’s composure. Through shared pain, quiet letters, and one long-overdue laugh, they begin to heal together. Along the lyrics of the song "Bigger Than the Whole Sky" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

CW: miscarriage, depression and suicidal ideation

The room was quiet—too quiet. The hum of the hospital machines had stopped hours ago. Y/N layed on the bed, a pale hospital gown laying over her body, hands cradling the soft roundness that had once held so much promise. Spencer stood nearby, his hand hovering above hers but not quite touching. He looked like a man who’d read every book in the world but couldn’t find a single page that could explain this.

Y/N finally broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice thin and cracked. “I’m so sorry, Spence.” ‘’Salt streams out my eyes and into my ears’.”

His heart clenched. “No. No, sweetheart, you don’t have to say that. This is not your fault.” But she kept going, as if she hadn’t heard him. “It's not fair. Why not, why couldn't I carry our baby?” She gave a hollow laugh, her eyes distant. “Or is it just the cruelest kind of divine?” “Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness.”

Spencer sat down on the bed in front of her, taking her hands. “Y/N… please don’t do this to yourself.” Tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she met his gaze. “I never even got to meet them. But I loved them, Spence. I loved them so much. And now all I can do is cry.” Her voice shook.

Spencer felt something in him shatter. “You didn’t even have a chance,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Every single thing to come has turned into ashes…”

He pulled her into his arms then, holding her as she sobbed into his chest. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. “There’s nothing in all the languages I know that can make this okay.” “No words appear before me in the aftermath.”

“I had so much to live for,” she whispered. “So much to lose…” Spencer rocked them gently. “We lost them together. But we’ll grieve together, too. I promise I’m not going anywhere.” She closed her eyes against the pain, letting herself be held. For now, that was all either of them could do—breathe through the heartbreak and wait for the quiet to feel less heavy.

Day One. The hospital room echoed with silence long after the doctor left. Y/N stared at the ceiling, her arms empty. Spencer sat beside her, fingers laced with hers, his thumb brushing her knuckles in slow circles. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

That night, as Spencer helped her into bed at home, she finally said, “I don’t know what to do with all this time.” He paused. “What do you mean?” She looked down, eyes blank. “Time I was supposed to spend holding them… feeding them… watching you rock them to sleep.” Her throat caught. “Now it’s just… nothing.” “And I've got a lot to pine about.”

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat and laid down beside her, whispering, “We’ll hold that time together.”

Week One. Grief settled like dust—coating everything. Y/N barely spoke. Spencer took time off work. He cooked food she didn’t eat, folded clothes she didn’t wear, sat beside her in bed while she stared out the window. One morning, she finally whispered, “Cause it's all over, it's not meant to be.”

Spencer didn’t know if she was talking about the baby or herself.

Week two. She began writing poetry for the baby. Something keep her busy and to try and focus all her emotions in. Spencer found the first one left on the coffee table beside a mug of untouched tea.

“Did some bird flap its wings over in Asia? Did some force take you because I didn't pray? Cause it's all over now, all out to sea.”

He read the whole letter with trembling hands, tears streaking silently down his face. That night, he brought her notebook to her room. “Do you want to read them to me?” he asked gently Y/N looked away, ashamed. “They’re just words. Useless ones.” “So I'll say words I don’t believe.”

“No,” he said. “They’re love.”

Month one. It started like all the hard days did—with not getting out of bed. The sun crept through the blinds, casting long lines across the room, but Y/N didn’t move. Her phone buzzed twice with texts from JJ and once from her sister. She ignored them all. Even the silence felt too loud. The grief was different today. Not sharp and aching, but dull and heavy—like she’d been filled with cement and left to dry.

--- y/n’s inner monologue --- I wake up, but I don’t move. The sun’s on my face, but I don’t feel warm. I hear the birds outside, the soft sounds of life moving on without me. I hate them for it. I envy them for it. The world keeps spinning, and I’m still stuck in the same moment—four weeks ago, in that sterile hospital room, staring at the ceiling while my heart broke quietly beneath the sound of machines. Everyone says time helps. But they don’t say what to do in the meantime.

I look at the corner where the bassinet used to be. It’s empty now. Spencer moved it when I was asleep. I think he thought he was helping. Maybe he was. But God, the silence is worse. There are bottles in the cabinet I can’t bring myself to throw away. I still have the little socks. The ultrasound picture. The list of names.

“I’ve got a lot to live without.”

The beeping from all the hospital equipment echoes through me like a prayer I didn’t choose. A baby I never held. Laughter I’ll never hear. First steps. First words. First everything. All gone before the beginning. And I hate that I still breathe. That I still eat. That I still function in this half-life while our baby will never get the chance to even start one.

People say “you’ll feel normal again,” but what if I don’t want normal without them? What if I want them? I roll over and face the wall. I don’t cry today. I’m too tired for that. Today, I just carry the weight. Quietly. Alone.

--- end y/n's inner monologue --- Spencer peeked in the doorway around 10 a.m. “I made toast,” he said gently. “And tea. You should eat something.” She stared at the ceiling. He came closer. “Y/N?” Still nothing.

Her voice finally came, flat. “It doesn’t matter.” Spencer sat on the edge of the bed. “It does. You do.” Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I was supposed to be different by now. Stronger. Better.” “You’re grieving,” he said softly. “There’s no timeline for that.” She turned her head toward the window. “I feel like a shell. Like I’m watching my life from the outside.” Spencer reached for her hand. “Do you want me to stay here with you?” She didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away. He took that as a yes. So he lay beside her, shoes still on, head on the pillow next to hers. For a long time, they just breathed. Eventually, her voice came again, barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to feel like this forever.” He looked at her, his eyes soft but resolute. “You won’t. Not forever. But until then… I’ll keep showing up. Even on the heavy days.” She blinked slowly, her eyes finally meeting his. “Okay.” And it wasn’t fixed. Nothing was. But it was a beginning.

Because that’s what grief is sometimes. A heavy kind of surviving.

Month Two. Spencer started therapy first. Y/N followed a week later. Progress was slow—measured in small victories: putting on jeans, making toast, laughing once at a dumb documentary he insisted she’d hate. She cried after, the smile so foreign it scared her. “I feel I’m not supposed to smile,” she said. “I’m supposed to be crying.” “You’re allowed to do both,” he told her. “Grief’s not a straight line.”

The room was warm, softly lit, and smelled faintly of bergamot. A bookshelf lined the far wall. Two armchairs sat side by side, facing the therapist. Spencer sat stiffly, fingers laced tightly in his lap. Y/N sat next to him, curled slightly into herself, wearing his cardigan like armor.

The therapist—Dr. Hale—gave them a soft smile. “There’s no pressure to say anything until you’re ready. This is just space.” Silence.

Y/N stared at the floor. Spencer glanced at her, then at the books, then down. Dr. Hale spoke again, gently. “Maybe we start with a simple question. What does grief feel like today?” Y/N was the one to answer. “Like waiting for something that won’t come back,” she said. Her voice was rough. “Like I’m supposed to be someone else right now… a mother. But I’m not.”

Spencer shifted beside her. “For me… it’s like static. In my head. I keep analyzing it—statistically, biologically. I know how common it is. I know we did nothing wrong. But none of it helps.” His voice cracked. “I still feel like I failed her.” Y/N’s hand twitched toward his. He reached out and gently held it. Dr. Hale nodded. “You're both carrying guilt. That’s normal, but it’s also heavy.” Y/N finally looked at Spencer. “I don’t want us to get stuck in this. In the silence.” “I don’t either,” he said. “But sometimes I don’t know what to say that won’t hurt you more.” “You don’t have to say anything.” She leaned against him. “Just stay.”

Spencer blinked fast. “Always.” Dr. Hale smiled softly. “That—right there—is the beginning.” And for the first time in weeks, they both exhaled at the same time.

The therapist supported Y/N’s idea to keep writting for the baby. She recommanded that they should write letters. A way to get out all the emotions that have been botteling up. Y/N wrote everyday a little, Spencer after every case he had.

From Y/N My sweet love, I don’t know where you are now. Maybe you were only meant to be a whisper in this world, a flicker of a heartbeat. But you were mine. Ours. And that makes you real. There were so many things I wanted to show you—sunlight through our bedroom window, the way your dad reads books like they hold the universe. I wanted to hold you on my chest and hum lullabies. I wanted to hear you laugh, cry, call me "mama." But instead, I am left with silence. I think of you every second. I wonder who you would’ve become. Your favorite song. The first book you would’ve loved. If your eyes would’ve looked like his. “I’m never gonna meet what could’ve been, would’ve been, what should’ve been you.”

I’ll never stop wondering. But I’ll never stop loving you either. You were, and always will be, ‘bigger than the whole sky.’

Love, Mom.

From Spencer Dear Little One, You never got to open your eyes, but I saw you clearly. In the curve of your mother’s smile. In the quiet hope I carried every time I read about fetal development and thought, “That’s happening in our baby right now.” ”You were more than just a short time.”

I don’t know what I believe about the afterlife. But I believe in love. And mine for you was immediate—unshakable. I wanted to read to you before bed. I wanted to show you stars, recite facts you’d roll your eyes at, take you to your first library. I dreamed of your first words and how they’d sound in our home. Instead, I carry those dreams in my chest. Quiet. Unfinished. Precious. I’m so sorry for not making it past the start, And all the things I’ll never know about you… I miss you. And I will, for the rest of my life. But I’m grateful I got to love you, even for a moment. You were the beginning of everything.

With all my heart, Dad.

It had been three months since they lost the baby. Spencer wore grief like an old sweater—familiar, stretched, and clinging to his frame even when he tried to forget he was still wearing it. The BAU had given him time. Morgan had told him to take longer. JJ had hugged him without saying a word. But eventually, he returned. Because what else was he supposed to do?

Work was his refuge. It always had been. Statistics didn’t cry. Autopsy reports didn’t ask how he was doing. But today’s case broke through the numbness.

A missing infant. Four months old. Taken from a crib in the middle of the night. No forced entry. Parents devastated. A pink knitted blanket left on the floor, slightly damp from where the mother’s tears had fallen. Spencer stood in the nursery, the crib still warm. He stared at the mobile spinning slowly above it, stuffed clouds and stars turning lazily in the air. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink.

He saw their nursery—the one he and Y/N had painted together, her laugh echoing off the walls as he got mint-green paint on his nose. The bassinet they'd ordered. The books he'd stacked in quiet anticipation. The tiny pair of socks she'd cried over in Target. He had to leave the room.

He made it through the rest of the day like a ghost. Went through the motions. Profiled. Analyzed. Helped find the baby alive, thank God. But that didn’t stop the breakdown. “I'm never gonna meet what could've been, would've been, what should've been you.”

It hit him on the drive home. Somewhere between a red light and a radio commercial, the world cracked open. He walked into their apartment, dropped his go-bag by the door, and saw her—curled on the couch in his oversized cardigan, the one she’d started wearing every night. Their eyes met. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Y/N stood slowly. “Rough case?” she asked, her voice small. “Baby,” he choked. “She was just four months. The parents—” His voice cracked. “—they looked like us.” She walked to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and he broke. His arms clung to her tightly, his face buried in her shoulder as the sobs came, harsh and shuddering. “I miss them so much,” he whispered. “I know,” she said. “Me too.”

They sank to the floor together, holding each other as the quiet surrounded them—no mobile spinning overhead, no baby monitor crackling, just the sound of their grief colliding and folding into love. Eventually, Y/N whispered, “We never got to hold them. But we carry them everywhere.”

Spencer nodded, forehead against hers. “Always. Bigger than the whole sky.”

Month four. They visited the cemetery on a rainy afternoon. The tiny plaque read only one word: "Loved." Y/N stood there for a long time. “What could’ve been, would’ve been,” she whispered. “What should’ve been you and us…” Spencer took her hand. “They were ours. Still are.” She nodded through the tears. “And I’ll miss them forever, like they were here forever.”

“Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.”

Five months and thirteen days. That’s how long it had been since they lost the baby. Y/N counted in the quiet moments. Spencer counted in pages read and mornings survived.

They were both still healing. Some days were heavier than others. Today had been one of the quieter ones. It was raining softly, tapping against the windows like a lullaby. Spencer had made tea—chamomile for her, something stronger for himself—and they’d settled on the couch with an old worn blanket and no words. Y/N was flipping through a photo album—one they hadn’t touched since before. It was filled with small memories: messy hair and sleepy mornings, museum trips, random polaroids of their feet, Spencer asleep with a book open on his chest. She paused on one picture.

Spencer was holding a stuffed elephant at a bookstore, grinning awkwardly at the camera. In the background, she was visibly pregnant—only barely—but her smile was soft, eyes squinting with laughter.“I forgot about this,” she murmured, showing him the photo. He leaned in. “Oh,” he said, a soft chuckle catching in his throat. “You told me not to buy that elephant, said it was overpriced and weird-looking.” “You bought it anyway.” “I hid it in the closet like a criminal,” he said.

Y/N let out a small, surprised laugh. She hadn’t expected it—but it came easily, and for a moment, it felt real. Spencer looked at her like she’d just returned from a long, faraway place. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh in… I don’t even know how long.” She blinked, then smiled again—tentative, but there. “It felt weird. Good. But weird.” He reached out, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “You can smile,” he said gently. “We’re allowed.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, but she was still smiling. “So are you.” He kissed her then, slow and tender. The elephant still sat on the shelf behind them, dusty but present—like grief, like love, like the baby they would always remember. Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside, just for a moment, there was light.

Month six. They planted a tree in the backyard. It wasn’t to forget. It was to remember without drowning. Y/N pressed her hand to the young bark. “This is for you,” she whispered. “For everything I’ll never get to know about you.” Later, she stood in the kitchen with Spencer, a hand resting over her heart. “It’s not better,” she said. “But… I’m still here.” He kissed her temple. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

One Year. They didn’t throw a party. Didn’t host anyone. They just sat together under the tree, arms around each other, Y/N’s head on his chest. As the breeze moved through the leaves, Y/N whispered one last time, “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye… You were bigger than the whole sky.” And in the quiet, Spencer whispered back, “And you always will be.”

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