Hi everybody, this is my first story - may I ask for gentleness? :)

English is not my first language (I am German), so please forgive me if you spot any mistakes and wrong choices concerning grammar, words, or expressions. And I'm certain you will spot them...:) I don't have a Beta yet, so if you're interested in helping me improve my English and make me a better writer, I'd be eternally grateful.

This is just a oneshot about Hotch's state of soul and mind up to the beginning of S6 that came to my mind, moved in and stayed.. Please feel free to review!

Spoilers for all seasons, mainly S3 - S5.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, but I'm working at it..

The Promise

He was not falling anymore.

The falling had been in the beginning when everything felt like a big fresh-cut wound, when his skin felt like being drawn from his bones, when he felt so exposed that breathing itself was pain. He was falling every night in his dreams, his nightmares. Falling into a void that was beyond his control. Control, the magic word. It had been taken from him, and now he was falling. Waking up kept him from falling any further, but it brought him back to the treacherous safety of reality. Then came the dumbness, the nothingness that had seemed like a relief after the hurting, but it only erased the person he once had been, the "I", disconnected it from himself until there was only fear left.

When feeling returned, it brought guilt - overwhelming guilt. Guilt was not alien to him; he had always been one to feel guilty easily. When he was younger, he had always felt guilty when it was his little brother who had to suffer the beatings instead of him. Later, he had always felt guilty whenever he felt her accusing eyes burning into his body and mind, telling him he had failed as husband and father - again. Then there was the ever present feeling of guilt when they were late, when a victim died, when they were not able to catch the unsub that vital minute earlier, that one crucial moment, that one hour, that one day. It was his fault, always, their screams were his, their prayers were to him, their despair was his, their loved ones' accusations were directed at him, followed him on his way back to Quantico, on his way back to what he once had called home. He had learned to control the guilt, to become a master of self-discipline, of restraining his own emotions until they were safely put away to that small part of his mind he could pretend not to have access to.

He once had been granted the blessing of a home, a shelter to turn to when the ghosts of the victims danced around him like a vision, accusing, relentless and yet entreating him for the mercy and deliverance they were not allowed in life. Those were the days when his wife's arms would surround him like a lifeline, the only instant when he would let someone catch him falling - he would allow himself to hide in her hair for that one moment when nothing mattered but the smell of her shampoo. She may never have fully understood what horrors he was facing, may never have been able or willing to see the ghosts that were his permanent companions, but she was the constant that kept him from falling, she was home. After holding her in his arms he was filled with the strength to push back the army of ghosts for another golden moment, and turn to the most precious thing that had entered his life when he did not believe himself to be worthy of a wonder so full of light, and innocence, and hope - his son. Being close to what seemed to be made of star-shine and eyes formed of life itself, made him a stronger and better man, made him believe forcefully again in so many things he thought forgotten and faded.

But then things had started to change. The light in her eyes had become dull, welcoming him home was not an act of joy anymore, returning after a case did not even feel like coming home anymore, the shelter, his refuge had become an illusion, slowly, almost unnoticed, but the signs had become clearer, impossible to ignore. There were fights and tears, harsh words that stuck in his mind and soul like the crimes of the men he was hunting, relentlessly filling his thoughts like a nightly intruder, impossible to fight. When she went away and took his son with her, there was nothing left to come home to, there was no such thing as home anymore. The silence of the house, its creepy atmosphere filled with all the accusations having been made, had become a prolongation of the darkness that was the reliable companion of his daily hunt.

So he had intensified the chase, had become an even more obsessed hunter focused solely on the prey. No green grass to feel under his feet, no sun to worship, no cave to raise the offspring, no heart to beat and hurt, no soul that dared leaving the chosen road for new terrain.

When he almost had convinced himself that he could manage to live what was left of his life like that, this very life was shattered by a threat so powerful and destructive that he had to stop his heart willingly from beating to be able to survive. There was no ambition, no motivation, no aim left but one. He had to eliminate what made it impossible to regain access to the one thing he was still living for - his son. Having to send him away had felt like being stabbed over and over again - a never stopping agony that took over control of his whole being. And that he could not let happen - he had to be in control, control was everything, being in control was the only key to being alive. So he lived, driven by his obsession, the hunt, now focused with laser-like intensity on this one enemy. Nothing else mattered anymore, there were no thoughts, no feelings, no wandering astray - there was only cold determination left; he could not allow himself to depart from that road, his last lifeline.

And when the day came, changing his life forever, he was there doing what he had to do. And he brought his heart and his soul, and he brought a swirling cosmos of emotions he had kept buried for such a long time, and he brought his love for his family, the force that had kept him going when there was no ground to walk on anymore, and he brought his control as a shield, and then he was forced to let go of that control, it was almost as if his control stepped back for a moment, giving him some sort of clearance, releasing him to that very moment when everything turned into one huge red clap of thunder, destroying the life he had and creating the basis for another.

After that, he did not allow himself to feel anything, except the love for his son, and his feeling of guilt that seemed to devour his mind and soul until there was nothing left of him. In addition, he was falling, falling into the void that seemed to have been reserved only for him, but he kept going not knowing exactly how and where he took the strength from to live a life that felt like the dream of one of the perverts he kept hunting. Moving on although his heart was in a stasis, doing his job although sometimes he did not have the strength to face another day consumed by guilt and recurring thoughts of his failure, because doing his job was the only thing that still felt right, felt like a purpose in a world that had become erratic like a word you had repeated so often that it finally lost its original meaning.

This and his son, whose eyes still shone like the light of stars although there were shadows in them that had not been there before, his son, her legacy, their child, the living and breathing sign of the love they once shared, of everything that was hope and joy and future in his life, his son, the constant reminder of a world that once was healthy and had beauty and truth in it, like little shining pieces of a diamond. He remembered those moments that were like a guideline through his life, a map to well-hidden places only to be found by a soul in agony. And he knew he had to revisit those moments, to re-find them, to make them his own again, because he could hear her voice in his head, he could hear his promise to her, the promise she had made him give the day she gave her life for their son. And although he could not find it in him yet, although he knew he would have to go through this life that was given to him with a heart that felt so heavy that he wanted to rip it off his body, he knew he had to keep his promise. The promise, her last gift to him, was the most precious gift he had ever received, and with a certainty and clarity, he had not felt in years he knew the promise eventually would save him.

Slowly, cautiously, like deer shying away from the light, feeling started to return. And when it returned, it brought guilt, but it also brought gratefulness, gratefulness for the son he was able to save, for the precious memories he was allowing himself again, for his job he was still capable of doing, for the hunt that so often felt like a nightmare repeating itself over and over again, but that eventually would keep him alive with its shining moments of truth, for his team, the people he lead and who so often were leading him by having his back, and for the promise he now had to keep.

He was not falling anymore.