“Get up, boy. What are you? Weak?”

The harsh words of your father echoed through your head, shouting at yelling as you scrambled away and tucked yourself in as a scapegoat for more protection from his blows. Your teeth bit into your hand as you tried to muffled your cries. Pathetic cries.

Your hair was wet from the times just before where he shoved your head underwater, and your back was bloody from that godforsaken belt. Fuck, your father loved that belt. You hadn’t even done anything this time, he was just drunk and you had managed to piss him off— again.

Sobbing into your hand, you closed your eyes, not bothering to move anymore because that would just provoke him further. He was in a drunken rage, you could only wait for him to leave you be and sober up.

“What? Are you crying? Crying? You know who cries, boy? Weak men. Real men don’t cry.”

You could hardly hear the cruel insults that left your father’s mouth, everything felt like it was underwater. You could barely hear him. All you could make out was your sobs and the fact that you were shaking uncontrollably.

You tried to take a deep breath in, reminding yourself of the words that had been conditioned into you ever since you could remember— ’Real men don’t cry.‘— and begin to repeat those words to yourself, shaky breaths entering and exiting your mouth.

The deep and calm voice didn’t snap you out of your panic attack, but the hand on your shoulder definitely did. Spinning around, you meet the chestnut flavoured eyes of your boss, Aaron Hotchner. Maybe breaking down in your workspace was not a great idea. Good one, hotshot.

“Hey, are you okay? What’s going on?”

Aaron’s concerned yet still stern tone found its way to your ears, as well as the words he spoke. You quickly nod and let out a soft sigh, still too ashamed to meet his eyes. It wasn’t even real. Just a flashback. You were probably just tired— yeah, that was it. It was a nightmare and you had fallen asleep, yeah.

Real men don’t cry.