her fingers trace ever so gently against the scar that splits his face in two halves, and while it doesn’t hurt he's tempted to flinch. he resists the urge, knows that she's not trying to hurt him. its a long story, and while the scar has begun to fade over the years the memories never did. hesitance lingers, debating a convincing lie, but instead he offers up the truth. or at least a version of it.     ❝  when i was a kid, like sixteen, my father — not-not the one you know, not stiles, my birth father — he, uh... well, i guess the story starts uh... a while before that.  ❞      voice trails off before head shakes gently, forcing himself back to the topic at hand.     ❝  but its— its a lot. the uh— the nice, or at least not so upsetting, version is that i... ran away. and when he got me back... uh it was— bad. violent. a, uh.. punishment, i guess.  ❞      its kind of upsetting that that's a nice, very exclusionary version of the truth.

he's never liked to get upset around people, never liked to cry when people could see. all the lingering consequence of the lab, of how emotions were seen there. some part of him, deep down, is still convinced that there's a price to pay for weakness, for showing any kind of feeling at all. that only makes him panic more when he gets upset, only makes his chest tighten, stomach aching. he tries to take deep breaths, but they just come out panicked.     ❝  s—sorry. i— sorry.  ❞      hands wipe at his face, try to push away tears that already started falling. it doesn’t work, he’s not even sure what he thought it'd do. so instead he lets himself accept her comfort, lets himself show that weakness, even if it absolutely terrifies him.     ❝  i just— i thought—  ❞      flashbacks, seeing things that weren't really there, it wasn't entirely new to him. he'd been dealing with it, in some form, for years. it was just usually softened by being entirely alone, had never really happened around people before.     ❝  sorry.  ❞

he never wants to be this way, never wants to shut her out, but some things are too much to really admit to, too much to face. his own emotions are often one of those things; he used to find comfort in a bottle, but now even that has been torn from him. it had to happen, he knows that, but god he just wants it all to stop for a while. its a temptation he struggles to avoid, but he’s a few years sober now and its something he’s proud of. he won't give in. so instead he bottles it up, keeps his feelings locked inside. one day it'll have to burst, but he never learned how to deal with his feelings, never learned healthy coping. people tried to teach him - stiles, therapists, friends - but it never really sunk in. emotions were trapped inside him alongside guilt; and while he'd managed to begin the painful process of letting go of the latter, the former still plagued him.     ❝  i don’ know what you're talkin’ ‘bout.  ❞      its the asshole answer, but he doesn’t really feel like going into all the feelings he's buried. doesn’t think busting down that wall is a good idea. if he started he's not sure he'd be able to stop.

               david   hated   using   his   powers   in   this   way .   it   made   him   feel   like   an   asset   ,   not   a   team   member .   however   ,   they   needed   someone .   penelope   garcia   had   the   qualifications   to   be   that   someone   ,   and   david   had   the   qualifications   to   retrieve   her .   there   wasn't   any   indication   of   david   entering   the   room   ,   he   simply   was   there   now .   "   don't   —   "   his   hands   raise .   "   don't   be   scared .   i   just   need   you   to   come   with   me   for   a   minute .   "

               "   oh   my   god   —   i   -   i   am   —   "   david   takes   a   few   steps   back   ,   blinking .   "   i   didn't   —   "   (   see   you   there ?   what   were   you   paying   attention   to ?   )   "   i'm   sorry   ,   "   a   nervous   smile   fronts   ,   "   today   has   been   —   just   ,   terrible .   "   he   forces   a   chuckle.   something   about   the   day   ,   this   day   in   particular   ,   was   more   sensitive   than   most .   bright   flashes   of   images   that   his   eyes   had   not   seen   ,   voices   he   had   not   heard   ,   moments   he   was   not   there   to   witness .   and   yet   ;   they   nestled   in   his   mind   ,   the   grooves   of   his   psyche   (   what   is   yours ?   what   is   theirs ?   ) .   like   a   camera's   lights   flashing   —   the   images   came   to   him   ;   gruesome   ,   terrible   ,   evil   things .   the   pictures   didn't   end   ,   no   ,   they   became   faster   —   crime   scene   after   crime   scene .   david   winces   ,   putting   a   hand   up   to   the   side   of   his   head .   (   what   the   hell   ?   is   she   a   serial   killer   or   something   ?   )      a   few   fumbling   steps   back   .   (   god   —   that's   just   —   )   "   i   -   i'm   sorry   ,   again   ,   "   he   turns   away   ,   putting   his   hand   out   ,   "   i'm   fine   ,   really   ,   just   —   "   flash.   "   —   migraine   .   "

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                 @pennelophe​                            ARC  I.   /     CRIMINAL MINDS