Something a bit angsty for a change, to reflect the mood s6 puts me in.

Different, so let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I do not own, blah blah blah...

Everyone has scars.

Only a select few have scars that define them.

Donald Flack Junior was one of those few. The most obvious, the one everyone knew of, extended from his ribcage to the pubic bone on his left side. That was the one that had people talking, the one that had them staring. Wondering what he looked like without the shirt, puckered skin for all the world to see. That one had hurt the most. In his bedside cabinet he still had the small orange bottle filled with painkillers, completely untouched. Sometimes, feeling pain was good.

There were others, too. A smaller, faded scar on his abdomen from when he had his appendix out, a smattering of lines from where he'd run into razor wire as a kid up his arm. They'd bled, but not enough to cause him serious pain.

Other scars, less visible. The scars only he could see on his wrists, mirroring the ones he'd seen on his mother when Sam's screams had him sprinting to the bathroom, to find his mother in a pool of her own blood, a note by her body simply reading 'I'm sorry'. The emotional scars from when his father would pass out in a drunken stupor, leaving him in charge of tear-away Sam.

The scars he knew would be evident on his liver from the heavy drinking that nearly cost him his life before he grew up and joined the Acadamy.

The angry red scar on his right side, from the stabbing on his first week as a rookie beat cop that could've ended his career if it wasn't for his determination and stupidly high pain threshold.

Now, he stood in Jessica Angell's bedroom, surrounded by the unfamiliar belongings. The lilac comforter tossed haphazardly across the bed, the t-shirts strewn across the chair in the corner. Her moisturiser and mascara shoved in a corner on her bedside table. He was more naked than he'd let a woman see him in a long time. Her hands rested on his chest, her eyes raking over the scars, cataloging every single one. Slowly, her fingers worked over the marks, soft skin smoothing his anxiety, while his own hands fell limply at his side.

His breath hitched as her fingers moved, but she didn't stop, or hesitate. She didn't care.

Wordlessly, Jess pulled her own shirt over her head, stepping out of her jeans.

That's when he saw them.

Her scars.

A long, ragged looking line running from under her right arm across her body to her left hipbone. His hands traced the line carefully, barely touching. "Gang leader in the Bronx. I was twenty-one." she whispered.

An almost invisible scar on her throat. "Operation when I was twelve."

His hands wrapped round her wrists, turning them upwards.

Two deliberate, straight scars across each. Her jaw set. "Bad childhood."

Flack nodded, kissing each wrist carefully.

Tears gethered in Jess' eyes. Her gaze was heavy with regret and isolation. Still not speaking, he leaned forwards and kissed her lightly, kissing away her fears. Letting her know she wasn't alone. No-one was ever alone. Their scars were reminders, lessons. If they didn't have them, they wouldn't be who they were. His hand wrapped round the back of her neck, his forehead pressed to his. He was there.

Everyone has scars.

They are what define us.

Review and let me know what you think, Anna x

PS, no-one is ever alone. A good friend told me that. You know who you are.