Being the Director of the FBI was an arduous task, especially when one was the youngest ever appointed to the role. So whenever he needed a break, he slipped out of his office in the Hoover Building and drove his way to Quantico.

After all, his favorite unit worked out of the sixth floor of the FBI Academy-although if anyone asked him, he'd simply say that all of his units were well-oiled cogs in an efficient machine. Which they all were, don't get him wrong-but watching the grace with which Aaron Hotchner's unit functioned was simply astounding.

Their graceful dances came with the ease of a swan song, yet dusk never seemed to pass; their tightly woven lives rarely stretching beyond their limits, never tangling; something other than pure cohesiveness seemed to be an alien matter to these profilers.

There was the stern face of the unit chief; a man too jaded by the horrors he'd seen in his life, but fair and honest and loving. A father in one of the most stressful jobs on the planet, yet never seeming to fail in either one of these capacities.

And for that matter, neither did the former liaison; Jennifer Jareau had thrice the stress with a husband and two sons, yet never once did her steadfast resolve waver. With water-like fluidity, she simply changed from being a media spokeswoman to an intelligent profiler.

No other man seemed to embody change more than David Rossi; an old and wise soul, and though his hair may gray his wit never wilted. The Director remembered witnessing the evolution of David Rossi from before his BAU days with the one he saw now. The Italian had truly embraced his family.

Emily Prentiss was one of those select few the BAU did not seem to want to become a family with at first; although the Director in no way blamed them. Erin Strauss and her ambition set a precedent for the team they were wary of well after her tragic passing. To Prentiss' credit, she resigned with honor, but the BAU never was a team to let anything slip between the cracks.

Derek Morgan embodied a slip between the cracks; as that was what he very well could have been had Carl Buford, however wretched that man was, introduced him to football. Make no mistake-it was Derek who pulled himself out of inner-city Chicago; and only him. However difficult his childhood may have been-it was his scars that made him a man of complete integrity.

And if having a difficult childhood did not mean you were doomed for all eternity, there was no better living, breathing proof of that than Dr. Spencer Reid. The poor child had practically raised himself; no number of IQ points would ever prepare a mere boy with that burden, let alone one with a mentally incapacitated mother-but he made it through. With no father, no friends, no role models, the boy had inexplicably become one of the finest men to walk the planet.

Everyone on the team was unfortunately much too familiar with the pain that tragedy brought forth upon those unlucky souls with whom fate had decided to play its cruel games. Such was life; a minefield of pain that could be navigated with much difficulty, and the people who somehow worked for the Director proved that to him.

Every one of those agents deserved a spot in Valhalla, should such a place exist. The Director would see to it that these amazing human beings; those who bravely toed the fine line between life and death; all the while delving into the dark to pull the drowning from the throes of perpetual woe into the miraculous world of light; that these heroes would never be forgotten.

Each and every time the Director watched them, he committed further and further to that promise, if such a thing was possible.