A year after leaving the BAU, Spencer Reid is restless and struggling to adjust to civilian life. Not finding any fulfillment or respite in it, he decides to take a position with Homeland. On assignment he meets you, a former Master Gunnery Sergeant...
Warnings: explosions, late night talks, mentions of prison arc,
Summary: Spencer learns just why they call Balad Air Base "Bombaconda." Later, you and the unit grill him at breakfast.
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The explosion nearly threw Spencer from his cot.
The CHU rumbled loudly, the thin metal creaking and shaking in time with the ground. Spencer sat up sharply, his chest heaving as he looked about wildly in the dark room.
The small window lit up with a flash as another roll erupted across the sky. Spencer could see the distant sand hills, hear a few shouts outside, so he flew out of bed. Quickly lacing up his boots, Spencer jumped up and dashed out the door to the corridor and out of the CHU.
He panted as he emerged from the thin door with a loud bang, staring at the sky with wide eyes. No other doors opened, though, and he found himself searching for someone to tell him what to do.
That was when he laid eyes on you, leaning against your own CHU, smoking a cigarette and smirking at him. He relaxed as he saw you, wearing cargo pants and a wife-beater, your hair slung up in a messy ponytail.
You weren't wearing a bra, and it made your tank top ride lower on your chest than you would probably have worn in front of the unit. It revealed the small firework shaped scar between your breasts, bright white against your suntanned skin.
"My eyes are up here, Doc," you chuckled, then took another drag off the smoke. Spencer flinched as another smaller explosion echoed in the distance, hurrying over to you.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked sharply, because you looked far too calm for someone so close to such a thing.
"Mortaritaville, Doc," you said simply, "way of life around here. Just gotta suck it up and drive on."
Spencer sighed and swiped a hand down his face. Fuck this place.
"If it's close enough to the FOB they'll sound the alarm," you offered, and you held out a pack of cigarettes his way. The 15 Year NA chip in his pocket weighed heavily at the thought, but he waved a hand at you. "Don't worry yourself until you hear that alarm, okay?"
"Okay," he nodded, coming up to stand next to you. He leaned against the metal wall, breathing in the smoke as it wafted over him. "Six minutes."
"What?" you asked, flashing him a look.
"Six minutes," he said, louder this time. "Each cigarette you smoke takes six minutes off your life. I used to say it to my mom every time she'd light one up... six minutes she wouldn't get to spend with me."
"Huh," you said, your gaze flicking down to the smoke. You flicked off the end of the bud and tossed it into the sand, snuffing it out with your boot. "What's your mom think about you being here?"
Spencer stiffened, then clutched his hands tightly together and stared down at them. He shrugged like it was no big deal, "She probably doesn't even realize that I left."
