A 15 inch howitzer on the Somme being loaded and the prepped for firing. The 15 inch howitzers were the heaviest of the British guns but there were only six on the 18 miles of the battlefront during the Battle of the Somme.
So I learned a good lesson on my scouting trip. I hike in about a mile when I realized I left my work knife & fire kit in the car. I remembered that I keep an extra fire kit in my bushcraft belt & a folding knife in my pocket. It’s always good to double down on smaller essential items.
Fire up 🔥 prepping for the @theboogalooinvitational this weekend, the #1951triumph has come a long way, come check it out. #vintagedragbike #t100 #nitromethane #triumph #engineeredtoslide #speedtwin (at The Boogaloo Invitational)
Can you do a story where Reid and the reader are dating and Spencer completely snaps at work (maybe a schizophrenic break or just loses his mind) and they fire him. He has to move in with her and live off of her. He gets scared that she won’t be able to handle his mental problems, and will leave him like his dad left his mom. Thank you <3
I can do this! Here is your one-shot, comin’ ‘atcha!
“I’m goin’ to the store, sweetheart, you want anythin’!?”
She’s not gonna come back.
“I uh…I think we need milk?” Spencer yells back at you.
“Alright. I’ll come back with dinner!” you smile as you shut the door behind you
But will she?
“Ok!” he yells back.
It was the first time you had walked out without saying you loved him.
And he was beginning to wonder when you were finally going to leave.
It had been seven months since he was fired from the BAU. He’s not really sure what made him break, but suddenly his hands got clammy with dead bodies and his heart-rate would skyrocket on the airplane. His co-workers tried to talk with him about it as it got worse, but when he discharged his weapon at an unsub that wasn’t actually there, they made him do a psych eval.
And they never did clear him to go back to work.
At first, he thought that that was it. That he was finally spiraling like his mother was. It wasn’t unlike blooming schizophrenics to have months…and sometimes, with medication, years…in between episodes like that.
You had been so kind as to offer him to move in with you, but with the two of you only being together for a few months, he had politely turned you down.
So, little by little, you had moved in with him. It was subtle, at first: an outfit you left behind that never made it home. A moisturizer you could have sworn you took with you. A pair of shoes you conveniently forgot to grab. Sly responses like “I’m always here anyway” and “I’ll remember it when I come back” kept him at bay.
And conveniently, you let the lease on your own apartment lapse.
“You can stay here for a bit, I never liked that place anyway,” Spencer had suggested. And it was true. You weren’t in the greatest part of town, and one time there was a break-in in the apartment below you which had made Spencer constantly paranoid for your safety whenever he left town.
And that temporary move-in was seven whole months ago.
Now, you were working a full-time job. You had quit your part-time gig in order to take a full-time job that had health insurance coverage for both you and Spencer. You took a job that you didn’t enjoy in order to provide for a man you loved that was breaking down mentally. Your dreams of children and happy families and massive southern Thanksgiving dinners were burning every day you stayed with him.
And he knew that you would see that eventually.
But, much to his surprise, every time you ran out for something…you always came back.
“Spencer!?” you called out as you swung the front door closed.
Spencer quickly shut his book as he trotted out of your shared bedroom.
“Hey!” he says cheerily.
“I got milk,” you huff as you throw the groceries up on the table, “as well as stuff for lunch sandwiches, chocolate for the milk, take-out thai for dinner, and ice cream for dessert.”
Spencer watched as you rattled off your grocery finds. He took in your light southern accent and your lightly-protruding love handles. He memorized the rose in your cheeks from hiking up his apartment complex steps day in and day out, and he noticed the light grease sheen in your hair from where you had neglected your own self-maintenance in order to take care of him.
And his mind started eating away at him again.
She doesn’t shave either.
He clenched his jaw as he watched you put away groceries.
What woman will neglect herself for long before resenting someone like you?
Tears sprang to his eyes as you turn around and look at him.
“Spencer?” you ask lightly as he stands there, rigid and frozen.
Was the voice he heard another break? Or his self-consciousness rearing its head?
Were they even different entities?
“Spencer?” you coo, “What’s wrong? Talk to me, sweetheart.”
The word that always grounded him.
The word he associated with love and comfort.
But as he rips his eyes from your face, the self-conscious voice in his head swirling and bastardizing everything around him, he looks over your shoulder to see a man he didn’t recognize holding a gun to your back.
And he leapt into action.
“FBI!” he roared as he went to grab the gun from his holster.
Drawing his gun as he points it at the man behind you, you whirl around as your eyes widen profusely, taking in everything that was happening.
“Spencer,” you breathe as you slowly turn your head back towards him, “Spencer…focus on my voice.”
Now the tears were springing to your eyes.
“Sweetheart,” you whisper as his empty hands tremble at the ready, prepping to fire a gun that didn’t exist.
At an entity who didn’t exist.
“Hey hey hey hey,” you breathe as you slowly reach out your hand to him.
“Look at me,” you encourage as he blinks the tears from his eyes.
Then finally, as if the clouds in his mind parted, he blinked the figure away and looked down at his hands.
His empty, trembling hands.
Seven months turned into ground zero in the blink of and eye.