Sunlight glinted off the black barrel of the Glock as it lay on the polished oak desk, his agency ID and badge in the black leather case alongside.

I must have cleaned that gun about a million times. Every night, like clockwork. Aaron Hotchner shifted his weight imperceptibly where he stood on the Berber carpeting and recalled, in a flash, his first David Rossi lesson in proper gun maintenance.

"Fifty-four steps, including dis-assembly, reassembly and safety check. Twice. Always two safety checks."

"Who has time for that?" Hotchner had asked, shrugging incredulously.

David Rossi had fixed him with a disconcerting glare and pointed an almost accusing finger in Hotchner's rather surprised face.

"You do, Aaron. You always have time for two safety checks." Rossi had leaned in slightly, his face inches away from Hotchner's, intent on stressing the importance of gun safety to his slightly-rattled agent. "I ever find out you're shirking weapon safety, I'm taking your gun and throwing it into the river. Then I will throw you into the river. Should I ever change my mind and require you to lick this gun clean instead, that is precisely what I expect you to do. Got it?"

Hotchner got it, no question. Thus followed half a lifetime of fifty-four step gun maintenance. Never another question.

Hailey had once jokingly (he hoped) accused him of huffing bore solvent for a cheap high. But she laughed; she thought it was cute, his meticulous attention to detail. He had the procedure down to about twenty-eight minutes now, but his first attempts had been upwards of an hour and a quarter.

Twenty-eight minutes? Why do I know that? My god, I'm turning into Spencer Reid. Time flies when you're having fun. Time flies when you're cleaning guns. Time flies when...

He squinted slightly, peering through the dust motes dancing around the gun, a shaft of sunlight highlighting the weapon he had coddled and babied which, in return, had saved his life more times than he cared to count.

What is it? What does this remind me of?

An annoyingly indistinguishable noise droned in the background.

The monotonous tone thudded on, increasing in volume. He felt like he probably should be listening to what the noise meant. But the dancing dust mesmerized him, and the thing, the image that he almost could see stayed just out of reach in his memory.

Holy light, holy light...

"Hotchner? Hotchner? Are you listening?" A loud, angry voice broke into his reverie, startling him so that he jumped slightly.

Aaron Hotchner dragged his eyes up from the desktop, noting the smart grey suit in front of him.

Click. I know.

Hotchner half smiled.

Jesus sky. Sean used to call it that.

Hotchner's eyes were drawn back to the shaft of sunlight playing across the Glock.

When Sean was little, his pediatrician had a set of Bible Story books in the waiting room. Inside the front cover was a drawing of Jesus illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. Sean always called it the "Jesus sky".

Does that mean my gun is Jesus?

That's weird...

The smart grey suit scowled. "Hotchner, are you even following what I said? There is absolutely zero tolerance for physical violence in the workplace. You have crossed a line, and there is no going back. You have been officially dismissed. You will be escorted from the building. Your personal belongings will be sent on, along with necessary documents. Do not return to your office. You will leave immediately and do not speak to anyone on your way out."

Hotchner paused, blinking the Jesus Sky memory away, then looked up sharply, meeting the Grey Suit's startled eyes. One last time, he snapped into BAU Unit Chief mode.

"I fully understand the implications of my actions, sir. While I do not agree with the severity of your decisions, I will abide by them. I had hoped to serve this agency and eventually end my career with the BAU, and I suppose I have. It was not the intent that I had when I walked in the door this morning, but I have to stand by my own beliefs as well as recognize and adhere to the Bureau's requests." He paused, never breaking eye contact, then continued.

"I hope the Agency is comfortable with this decision, despite their haste to rush to judgment." He held the Grey Suit in a steely gaze for a count of three, then looked down at the Glock again.

The ray of sun had shifted ever so slightly, and it no longer held magic. What he saw was just a gun on a desk. His gun. Well, an agency gun. It wasn't his any more.

He stood, eyes on the gun, still except for the nervous habit he had developed in childhood. Rubbing his left thumb and forefinger together, he tried to gather his thoughts, his wits, his dignity for his exit.

The Last Waltz.

Dead Man Walking.

Shut up, Aaron. This is serious.

He bit his lower lip, digging teeth into flesh just a bit too hard. He became aware of his fingers moving and clenched his fists, tightly, then realized that was what had him in trouble. Deep trouble. Over his head trouble. Out of a job trouble.

Well, fuck. This must be shock. It has to be.

He ran his tongue experimentally over his very dry lips.

Yep. Numb. I'm in shock. Or maybe I'm having a heart attack. Well... fuck. Okay. No use dropping dead in here.

And with that, Aaron Hotchner, accompanied by two security guards, left the building.