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P A N I C

S T I L E S : 0 2

Every morning for me is usually the same. I wake up dead fucking tired because I stayed up all night testing out theories, figuring out puzzles, and doing basically everything except for sleeping. There's usually a pool of drool near my lips, paper stuck to my face, and a pen in my hand that might have or might have not scribbled all over me. My body is usually a huge ass shit storm of soreness and stiffness from being sprawled out somewhere on the floor and waking up completely alone. Such a lovey experience.

That's how most of my morning go but this morning... this morning was different. I woke up to a loud knock at the door of my little apartment and the sound of people screaming. I didn't even pay attention to anything when I stood up all robotic, haphazardly putting my glasses on and walking to the door angrily, in yesterday's clothes. I tripped a couple of times and then opened the door.

The sun was bright outside, so bright it reflected right off of the FBI's gun that- by the way- is pointing right at my face in a taunting way. There was a stupid fucking gun pointed at me and all I had to say was-

"Uh. Is this a dream?"

To say I almost passed out would be an understatement when the words Mr. Stilinski you're under arrest for murder... you may remain silent anything you do or say can and will be...

Did I say almost? Yeah well scrape that, roll that up in sand paper, burn it and flush the ashes down the toilet because what I actually meant was that I did indeed pass out. The next thing I know, I'm in a room with my hands chained to a silver table, struggling to breath and trying not to panic. I haven't taken any of my pills today and it's only a short amount of time before I'm jumping off of walls, getting caught up in my head, or panicking to death.

Breath Stiles, breath.

My hands start shaking because I'm terrified. What the hell am I doing here!? I'm in school to put other people here not to fall victim to the uncomfortable chair, the cold table, the plain walls, the one way mirror, the old camera and the panic.

My heart lurches knowing someone might be watching me sit here, in dirty clothes and my unwashed hair, my glasses all askew. Then the words under arrest for murder, trespasses into my mind and spits in my face, graffitis profanity onto my skin and throws bottles of whiskey and half empty beer cans at me.

Is this really the time for me to be sarcastic?

I'm not supposed to. It's bad when I'm on my meds so without them- it's utter hell. I try to think of calming things like my mother's beautiful face but then I remember that she's dead and even though I'm not supposed to, I can't help it. I PANIC. SO MUCH PANIC OH MY GOD I'M GONNA LOSE MY MIND.

Breath. One two three four five six, crap breath slowly! Stop panicking!

I break my personal protocol and suck in a deep breath through my mouth which makes everything so much worse. It's like I'm drowning, I try to duck my head in between my legs but the chains wont let me get that far. I start yanking on them, panicking even more now that I can't breath, I can't focus.

There's a hand choking at my throat and another squeezing at my heart. My wrist starts to hurt the more I pull and yank and my eyes water and I can't think because I can't breath. And so I try to scream but my voice falters in my throat and this is all too familiar.

I begin to sweat, to feel so nauseous I can barely sit without shaking and swaying. I yank at the chains some more and My body starts to feel like it's on fire. It hurts so bad, I feel like I'm dying.

This reminds me of Gerald and the PTSD flash backs aren't  helping at all, in fact it's hammering down the nails of fear much more deeper into my soul. It's cutting me with knives meant to kill werewolves, meant to kill Scott.

Oh my God I'm going to die here. I'm going to die and-

My hands are suddenly not chained and I'm so relieved but I still can't focus. I fall off of the chair, hands gripping my knees and ducking my head between them.

I'm going to throw up.

"Breath. You need to breath." For a second the world turns hazy and pain swells so deep in my chest- I- I can't even explain it properly. But then there's someone taking my face in to their hands and forcing me to look at them.

Light brown eyes stare into mine and scream words at me without saying anything. I look down at their nose and then their lips to try and copy the motion their moving in.

In, out, in, out.

It takes a while, but after that while, I'm pretty much okay. Just extremely exhausted, embarrassed, stressed, and moderately anxious. It takes a couple of moments of me staring into those eyes, clutching at the back of their shirt, my knees touching their chest and their hands on my face for me to realize that I'm okay and that I should probably let go now. But then It takes another second for me to do so and when I do it, I do it slowly.

The guy, yes he's a dude, helps me up and gives me a once over, eyes lingering on my now bruised wrists. I know he'll have to chain me up again, and even though I haven't done anything wrong, I know it best to cooperate with him. I sit and extend my hands for him to cuff me but he takes a seat in the chair directly in front of me instead, completely ignoring my hands. He gives me my glasses, they must have fallen off at some point.

I don't put them on, my muscles are too sore for that right now. All I want to do is sleep, my body is so tired.

"Are you okay in here Reid?" My eyes snap to the group of people standing there and I have to suck in another deep breath to control myself.

There's a buff dude with a tattoo peaking out of his sleeves and another man in a suite that looks expensive. They both have guns on their waste and intimidating eyes that aren't half as bad as Derek's so it doesn't really scare me. I stare at them, almost expecting them to take out their gun and shoot me.

"Yes." Reid, as I just found out, nodded and the men left.

"Hello my name is Dr. Spencer Reid, I'm with the FBI behavior analysts. Do you know why your here?" He looks so calm, it's hard not to stay calm. Well my version of calm is very different from others, I'm still moving a bit too much but still, he helps. I realize this is most like on purpose, he's remaining calm to make me calm.

I shake my head, not trusting my voice enough. He watches me intently and then, almost accidentally says-

"Just how bad is your anxiety and your ADHD? Does it hurt when-" He catches himself and now it's my turn to watch him.

He looks professional, completely and strictly professional with his button down shirt, suspenders, a tie, and a sweater vest. He also carries a gun at his hip, the only thing a bit odd are his mismatched socks and his convers.

Cute.

"I'm going to send in some food and water for you, have someone pick up your medicine at your place and then send it in." His expression doesn't lead me to think of this being anything more then protocol. But his eyes say it all.

He doesn't think I'm guilty.