"Where did Hotch go?"

Rossi looked up at Morgan leaning against the doorway. "He's taking some personal time."

Morgan raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Now? It's barely after lunch, what does he need it for?"

Rossi shook his head. "Didn't ask."

"And you aren't at least a little concerned?" Morgan asked skeptically. "Has he ever up and left in the middle of the workday?"

"Well, I'd ask, but he said that he's cutting communication and that if he is needed he's only answering Penelope or Jessica's call."

"Jack's not with him?" Morgan asked, taken aback at yet another out-of-character decision. He couldn't remember if Hotch had ever taken a personal day without Jack.

Rossi shrugged, though his concern was also obvious. "Even Hotch needs a break sometimes."

The crisp winter air of the Virginia wilderness was filled with silence, only cut by the sounds of nature. Hotch stood in front of the cabin, staring blankly and letting the ambiance of the place that had been Gideon's chosen safe haven wash over him. It was a far cry from his once-daily forays into the mind of the scourge of humanity.

Only now it was tainted with blood, with the murder of the man who had found a refuge in the peace of this forest.

Is there really a place on the planet that hasn't seen the vileness of man?

How could he possibly articulate the sheer depth of the grief and resentment that he felt towards the man who had once been one of his mentors, who had left him floundering in the dust to clean up the mess that was left behind?

Insomnia had been keeping Hotch up way past midnight and he was going through paperwork with the hope that it would bore him to sleep when he got the call. Years of getting cases in the middle of the night had left its mark, as the sound of his ringtone cleared his head as it had done so many times in the past. Reaching for his phone, he anticipated the multiple trips to the coffee machine that had replaced the old, faithfully crappy machine that had been there when he first joined the unit.

And he was right—he wouldn't be getting any sleep that night.

Or the next night, for that matter.

Hotch remembered feeling strangely detached from his person as he put on a coat and, on a whim, pulled out his service weapons from the safe, grabbing his work bag as he left the apartment and headed towards his car.

In any other situation, he would have worried about falling asleep at the wheel during the long drive.

In any other situation, he would have called the team to assemble.

But this was not any other situation. Seeing the flashing red and blue lights from an emergency vehicle illuminating the cabin and the surrounding clearing proved that something was wrong, and when he approached one of the EMTs, he knew this was something he had to do for the sake of the team. As he always does.

For the sake of the team.

They had gone through too much.

It was a surprise to see his contact flashing on his phone screen after over seven years of no contact, but it was alarming when he heard pained groans and then a series of gunshots from the other end.

And that was when the terrible thought came into his mind.

And even though Hotch knew what he was going to see when the EMTs exchanged a look and let him into the cabin, it certainly wasn't less of a shock, wasn't less of a punch to the gut to see the body, crumpled on the ground with blood pooling around it like a grotesque puppet with its strings cut.

Hotch remembered staring blankly at the man who had left the job that killed his fire in search of himself, but whose fire was now extinguished. Permanently.

For the sake of the team.

He remembered snapping back to himself to find that he had knelt down with his own hand near the neck, having just checked for a pulse in hopes that it would make it— real? fake? He cleared his throat before standing up and turning to the waiting EMTs. At the sympathetic looks he was getting, he felt a faint annoyance rising through the ice that froze through his being.

He wasn't the floundering, young, ambitious agent that probably would have been giving some indication that he was barely holding himself together at the seams

He wasn't the friend— were they really friends, though? —who hadn't seen or talked to him in years and would probably be giving some indication that he was grieving.

His name is—

His name was Jason Gideon, he's a former FBI agent. I will be calling in federal law enforcement to investigate this, please make yourselves available in the next few days to give your statements…

He had to be the uptight hardass that didn't let anything affect him. He had to retreat into the cold mechanical mindset that protected him, for the team.

It didn't feel right, however. How could he put on such a facade in a place that was supposed to be safe? How could he, in the place where Gideon could be totally himself without fear of the demons that haunted him?

How could he treat this like any other crime scene?

For the sake of the team.

The first call he made was to Stephen. It wasn't the first time he had made a notification of death to family members, and he didn't let it be any different this time.

(oh, but it was so different.)

It's Aaron Hotchner, I worked with your dad in the FBI. I apologize for calling so late…

And then calls were made to the team. They were short—there was no way Hotch could possibly tell them about the murder over the phone, but the team was smart. They all knew something was wrong.

I need you to come to Gideon's cabin as soon as you can. I texted you the address.

The same thirteen words, repeated six times to six different people, with his same detached, precise tone of voice.

Emily. I, uh, just wanted to let you know that Gideon was murdered. In his cabin a few hours ago. I'm there now, I've called the rest of the team, and… Yeah, I just wanted to let you know. I hope everything is going well in London.

Emily hadn't picked up, but she called Hotch back a few hours later. It doesn't feel real , he had said when she asked after him. He was never really able to lie to her, the woman who he found was just as broken and yet fiercely protective as him, and he knew that as he changed the subject and started updating her on the status of the investigation.

I'm not sure if you're even going to listen to this, but I thought it would be better if you heard it from me than from an email, or text, or… yeah.

I just wanted to let you know that Gideon was found shot multiple times in his cabin early this morning; he was murdered. The team worked the case and solved it, the unsub was killed along the way, so… there's going to be a funeral, and though I'm not who his son is planning on inviting, I'll tell you where he is buried when that happens, and… yeah. Just thought I should let you know. Hope you and your family are doing well.

The words had come surprisingly easy to him when he left a message for Elle. Their correspondence over the years was never constant and never for long periods of time, mainly consisting of pictures that kept the other updated on their lives, and they never called.

Now, he wondered how she reacted to getting the message. Did she curse him out for calling for the first time in years only to tell her that her old colleague had been murdered? Did she confide in her partner?

Dave had been the first to get to the cabin, and Kate and JJ followed closely behind. Reid, Morgan, and Garcia came shortly thereafter. Hotch watched as all of them took in the state of the cabin and the sheet-covered body he was standing sentinel over, and no one said anything until Garcia took the first step.

It's Gideon.

Grief was a terrible feeling, and it cut right through people's masks and shone a light on the good and the ugly that was within a person. It was a feeling Hotch was intimately familiar with, many times over now, but the team had only seen him ripped open once. He was well aware that he didn't make for a pretty sight when they got to the house he had lived in with Haley. They had walked in on a fit of explosive, murderous anger that had been immediately followed by pure, unadulterated grief.

He was well aware that the shattering of his infamous control had scared the team.

And so, just like a few years ago with Emily, Hotch watched over his team as they rushed to solve the murder, all driven by the pain of loss.

He watched as Rossi gave everyone an insight into how the BAU started when it was just him and Gideon before Max Ryan had taken them under his wing.

He watched over them over the next few days and weeks as they all grieved in their own ways, keeping an eye out for red flags.

But now, when he wasn't even trying to keep up the facade, he still felt numb. For how could he articulate the so many complicated feelings he had regarding the man who had guided him, who had taught him to be sure of himself, who had abandoned him without a word?

Hotch looked around, faintly surprised to find that he had walked into the cabin and was simply standing in the middle of the living room. He had only been to the cabin once prior that night, and there was a palpable difference in the air.

Tainted.

A few weeks had gone by since this cabin had actually been lived in. Everything was still in its place, perfectly preserved like a museum exhibit.

Like a crime scene.

Unable to remain any longer, he turned to walk back outside when something on the wall caught his attention. He walked over, only to stop dead a few feet away.

There were multiple photos and drawings of birds pinned to the wall, and near the edge of the collection was a single picture of the team that had been when he had left. Peeking out from under it was a single slightly yellowed envelope.

It was with caution and slight guilt that he moved forward and carefully unpinned the photo to get the envelope. As he walked over to the nearby dining table and sat, he carefully pulled out the contents of the envelope—a single, folded sheet of paper.

When his eyes landed on the first line of that painfully familiar handwriting, he could only be glad that he was sitting, else his legs would have given out from under him at the sight of his first name.

This was written years ago, he thought with startling clarity, he was going to write to me.

If anything, he felt even more numb as he read through the letter. And when he finished, there was still nothing.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to hit something, he wanted to feel— anything.

But he felt nothing—nothing but exhaustion.

You're going to go weeks—months, even—feeling fine. And then you're going to have a bad day.

He's had many bad days before. He never wants to have one again.

He's spent years chasing after unsubs—psychopaths, rapists, terrorists. He's spent years trying not to lose himself along with the people who've left because the darkness of this job finally caught up to them.

Elle, Erin, Alex, Gideon, Emily… Haley.

But maybe he did lose himself. Why else can't he bring himself to feel anything, even after finding out that Gideon still remembered that young ambitious agent that shadowed him and Rossi like an eager puppy?

And if he did indeed lose himself, maybe it's for the best.

The alternative is too painful to imagine. And despite outward appearances, Aaron Hotchner is fragile.

He is human.