No one leaves the table.

[unsociably]

It's his first kill, technically.

Technically.

He's killed a million times in a million different ways. He's killed and honoured every part, worshipped every part of her. He's taken the lungs from people, twisted it around, slit their backs and made them into angels. He's removed brains to make room for beehives.

He's watched mushrooms still grow on the living, watching their life dim as new life flourishes.

See? Garret Jacob-Hobbs had said, sliding down from the 10 shots Will had administered to him. See? He had said, and Will can't close his eyes without seeing, now. His face, eyes so very blue, biting into him. Staring into him.

He sees Garret Jacob-Hobbs slit his own daughter's throat. Sees her laying in a pool of her own blood, looking so very much like a gutted fish. A fragile teacup, shattered not with clumsiness but with an intent.

Honour every part of her, his mind speaks out to him. Seems to whisper, though the whisper is a foghorn, loud and echoing despite hissed words.

It's his first kill.

It's his first kill and he can't seem to keep the gun straight, and though he's never been good at aiming but he's never been this bad, never missing the entire target, but it's hard to focus when you see not the sheet of paper, but a bloated, dead corpse.

He keeps firing.

He doesn't know why, either.

Comments

[comfortablyerect]

The guy leans out of his window to look at Tim, and he's even cuter this time, somehow. Maybe it's the lack of ear protection now, which Tim isn't actually wearing. He should be — it's required. But when you have a military ID and a marshal's badge and you start chatting with the owner about the Rangers and Afghanistan, there's quite a bit of required shit you can just skip.

Eight years of Humvee explosions and pulling the trigger of a large rifle over and over again has already done enough damage to his hearing. Can't get much worse, honestly.

He looks at the man with the messy hair and the unsteady hands and wishes for a moment that he were actually better at talking to people. Wishes, just briefly, that he was full of charms and smiles like Raylan instead of arched brows and smartass remarks. That would make things easier, probably.

What would also make things easier is not being an asshole, he thinks, but he also thinks he's probably incapable of that by now.

His gun is lowered, and though he hasn't put it away, it isn't very threatening, either. He still has half a clip to empty. Hopefully, into the other guy's target, just so he can keep being impressive. He's not much of a show off, honestly. He's just capable, and he happens to be capable around other people.

"Your target was just lookin' pitiful and I thought I'd help out." Though, with remarks like that, it's hard not to believe that he's not a show off. He presses his lips together briefly.

"You want some advice?" He continues without waiting for an answer. "Stop lockin' your elbows."

[unsociably]

Not cocky. Not arrogant. Not the right words--Tim is something else. It's on the tip of his tongue. He can taste it, and it tastes like sand and napalm and sweet tea from a mother's kitchen.

Courage. Pain.

It's spinning in Will's mind and he feels a little dizzy, suddenly, though it doesn't show. Nothing shows, because Will is a careful person who's used to blocking this out. No sound equipment, no protection. Clean, clear military shooting and the mouth of someone (that mouth, but that jawline, too) of someone from not a precinct, but overseas.

Sand and napalm and sweet tea.

Will's own voice is gravely, and he wonders if Tim can taste the sand, too, or if all he tastes is blood now, with the way he aims. Blood and bombs and fire.

As it is, Will's actually looking for advice. He's not tenacious, not stubborn, but something about that charm wants him to argue for argue's sake.

A pity he's not socially adept at witty banter like this. He has the distinct feeling that it's the only thing the other knows.He blinks before looking down (down, how odd) at the other.

"My elbows were locked," it's not quite a question but it's not quite a statement, either, and he frowns. "Not my rotatory cuff?" He's always had issues with that, never his elbows.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim tastes sand and smoke and gunpowder when he wakes up in the middle of the night, and it lingers with sweat and nerves and guilt until he can manage to mask it with the taste of bourbon. Right now, all he can taste is metal and gunpowder and potential.

And it's the potential that has him still standing there, despite how close he is to running over his lunch break.

He tilts his head. It's subtle, minuscule almost, but it's there, a thoughtful movement. He holsters his gun, abandons his own window to step just a little closer, get a better view of the other as a whole. He'd like to tell himself that it's just so he can get a more accurate look at the other's stance, and not so he can get a more accurate look at the other's ass, but then he'd be lying.

The guy has a great ass.

His gaze flicks up, to the guy's elbows and his shoulders, and his brow creases.

"What happened to your rotator cuff?"

Handguns weren't something he used frequently until he became a marshal. He wasn't unfamiliar with them by any means, but he was far more comfortable with a rifle. That's still the case, honestly, and the way a rifle is handled and shot is vastly different than a handgun.

[unsociably]

He's not wearing any jackets or anything overlaying--it's just his jeans and flannel, mostly because it's just his hotel room for the time being. He can hear Alana Bloom's voice asking the same question, too, and that's what nearly causes him to smile.

Throughout the entire conversation, he hasn't once looked Tim in the eye. Near them, but never at them. He keeps his gaze just below or just above, never level, and this is no exception as he offers a half-shrug.

"I was stabbed," He says quietly, "A while ago." He sees no harm in letting the other know he used to be a police officer--though it was less to do with protecting and serving and more to do with homicide. There's no pain or anything of that sort in his voice--just stating a mild fact.

He's good looking, this guy. Too good looking, and Will wonders what it's like, briefly, to be that attractive. To draw attention like that. He imagines it would be an annoyance to him, but Tim doesn't seem to mind it.

"Thank you," he says suddenly. "For your service."

[comfortablyerect]

Well-- yeah, getting stabbed would to it. It explains the off-looking stance. Most military and law enforcement hold their guns the same way because, generally speaking, they're all taught how to shoot the same way. But if there's one thing military and law enforcement have in common, it's the will and ability to adapt.

This guy's just adapted. Or adapting, it appears. It's never been something Tim's had to do, but he's seen soldiers do it. It's not easy, really.

He's about to say something about how Will should push his elbow out when he shoots, to compensate for the injury and to lessen the way the muzzle flips upwards when the trigger's pulled. Because now that he knows about the rotator cuff, the rest of it makes a lot more sense. He never taught guns, but he knows what he's doing. He's opening his mouth to deliver this particular piece of advice when the other speaks up again.

Tim blinks in surprise. He's not wearing his dog tags, or any other indicators of a military background. Other soldiers would be able to pick up on it, but he'd be able to pick up on them, too. And this guy definitely isn't military.

"How'd you know?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely curious. He doesn't mind, really. It's not like it's something he keeps a secret. But he doesn't like being able to be read so easily.

[unsociably]

Will shakes his head at the other's words, but it's not because it's something he disagrees with--it's more of an unconscious movement. The way Tim's jaw sets mirrors Will's own, he realizes, and he wonders if it's rude to stare.

Finally--finally, and for a few milliseconds, his gaze sweeps up to Tim's eyes and he actually looks at him dead on, making eye contact for the first time.

The man has alarmingly blue eyes. They stick out from the rest of him, all rustic tan and skin peppered with sunlight.

"I was right," He comments softly, mostly to himself, and he hits the t on the end of the sentence hard, like he's spitting it out. He's back to staring at the other's jaw.

"A hunch," He settles on, because that's easier than 'I can see you in a crowded foreign street in a uniform.' He glances, quickly, at his booth.

"May I?" He wants to practice with what the other's saying about his elbows, but doesn't want to be rude. If anything, it's a small invite to join him.

[comfortablyerect]

A hunch, the man says, and Tim reckons it's a little bit more than that. That the other saw something in him — perhaps the way he carries himself, the way he holds a gun, the vaguely military styled haircut despite it being not quite up to regulation — and accurate pegged him as an ex-soldier.

Those are very specific details to notice, though. An observance that normally takes some sort of training to possess. Clearly, the guy isn't just a civilian with shit aim.

Though he figured that by the whole getting stabbed bit. It's not as if the other is uncomfortable or unfamiliar with a gun. He seems to know what he's doing, more or less. It's just the aim that's off. He's just adapting.

Tim's observant, too.

"Have at it," Tim says, and he gestures vaguely with one hand towards at the other's booth. He does move closer though to watch. The shooting and the stance, mostly, but also the other's ass when he turns around.

[unsociably]

Will nods, and his adam's apple bobs as he swallows and returns to the booth. He's surprisingly nervous, but that's got less to do with aiming and more because he knows someone is watching him. It's hard, being scrutinized, especially at something you don't excel at.

It's Tim, too, Will realizes, but bites that down. It's Tim with his eyes and too-perfect jawline, clean shaven and ready to serve and protect. The impeccable aim is a skill Will admires, too, and he wonders if he should be worried about the fact that it's an admirable trait. He supposes it's used in hunting.

Honour every part of her, he hears, but he blocks it out and puts on his ear protection. Blocks it out and does as Tim explains, shifting his stance just so, adjusting for his cuff issue and anticipating the shot.

It hits, this time. Not perfect, but damn well near the heart. He isn't that bad.

The second shot actually hits it. He smiles--almost--and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"Better," He observes.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim watches, and it is more than just staring at the other's ass, honestly. He watches the man's posture, his shoulders and his back and his hips, the way he grips his gun, the way he's positioning his feet, and the way he takes Tim's advice and adjusts his elbows to help with the recoil.

Adapting at its finest. Tim almost smiles, too.

"Better," he agrees. "Weaver Stance is good for gettin' off shots quicker and the grip makes the recoil easier to handle. The Isosceles is better for accuracy, more commonly used. But what they taught us in boot camp was the Fightin' Stance. Basically just the bastard child of the other two, but it gets some damn good results."

Maybe now he's actually showing off, just a little bit. He knows his guns better than he knows anything else. Besides, Guns & Ammo just did a spread on stances in their last issue, so he's gotten a very recent refresher.

His gaze flicks over Will briefly, then over at the target. His own shots are there, accuracy spot on, but it's Will's he's paying attention to, impressed by the quick improvement. This is the kind of shit that definitely shouldn't get him all worked up and turned on, but damn-- nothing like a cute boy with a firearm.

"What kind of trainin' do you have?"

[unsociably]

"Standard police academy," Will answers in all seriousness. He's spent some time hunting when he was younger thanks to living in Virginia, but all in all, he's always preferred fishing.

Hell, what he does now is a form of fishing. Just letting someone take the bait, that's the hard part. It's the same with people. It's the same with emotions, too, and he steadies his hips.

Maybe he'll ask Tim to help him with the Fighter stance again. He find he doesn't mind the other's voice--most military men he finds grating. Belligerent. Thought for a very brief moment that this one would be, too.

He fires a few more shots and his aim is the same: he hits or just barely misses, and the lack of Garret Jacob-Hobbs is almost soothing. He wonders if it's his mind of Tim's presence. A person dispelling his illusions wouldn't be the first time.

"I was never very good in the academy, however," he admits, and winces at his words as he moves the gun up a second time before hesitating and lowering it.

"Could you show me fighter stance?"

Will already knows what it looks like, he just doesn't care.

[comfortablyerect]

The sound of gunshots shouldn't be soothing his nerves right now, but they are. For Tim, it's a good day when gunshots put him on high alert, and a bad day when they make him feel comfortable. Today is one of the bad days, but that's why he's here in the first place.

No need for therapy when you have a little bit of recreational shooting.

The guy is a cop, then. Or was a cop, at least. It explains the familiarity with a firearm, and the observational skills. Though, that level of observation is several cuts above any sort of street cop. Maybe, he thinks, the guy is a detective now.

"Seem to be doin' fine now," Tim murmurs, watching as the other shoots a few more times.

He's glancing at Will's hips when he ask, and Tim looks up. He knows without looking at his watch that if he doesn't leave right now, he's going to be late getting back to work.

"Sure," he says, and moves forward, drawing his own weapon to demonstrate. "Feet shoulder-width apart, with your firin' side foot just a little behind your support. Knees bent just a bit — they'll absorb your recoil well. Arms straight out, and you're gonna lean forward a little. They teach this stance to soldiers because it's good for firin' any kind of weapon. Handguns, shotguns, sniper rifles, assault rifles."

He's not even in an ideal position to shoot, his angle just a little bit off, but he does it anyway. Just shifts and adjusts and pulls the trigger, and hits the target in the heart, right where Will did.

"Might be hell on your shoulder though," he says, lowering his gun again. "For the same reason the Isosceles Stance is."

[unsociably]

"I had no intention of mimicking," Will says mildly, "merely observing." Because that's the truth, unswayed and to the point. Will's either far too direct or far too subtle, there's not really much room for in between. He tries to be direct most of the time, though.

He's directly staring at Tim's adam apple, for example. Wondering how it looks when he drinks water. Nice, he bets. Tim's neck in general is incredibly nice.

"Thank you," He says for the second time, and he forces himself to look Tim in the eye again. He isn't sure Tim knows exactly how much help he was, dispelling the illusion.

"Can I asked where you served?"

[comfortablyerect]

"Probably better," Tim agrees. He doesn't realize how uncomfortable he feels being observed until Will calls it that. It felt like demonstrating before. Now it just feels like he's being watched. He prefers to be the one doing the watching, usually.

He notices, though, the way Will seems to avoid eye contact. If only because in the military, all you ever make is eye contact. It's disrespectful, otherwise. He can't tell if he's more or less comfortable when Will finally does look him in the eyes. Tim makes a point not to drop his gaze like he wants to.

"Don't mention it." He feels like Will probably shouldn't be thanking him so much, seeing as he was a dick initially. Then again, if he weren't a dick, he wouldn't be standing here holding this conversation and staring at Will's jawline.

So, really, he's certainly not complaining.

"Afghanistan," he answers. Another question he doesn't mind. He never minds talking about the military and the war until it gets personal.

[unsociably]

Will's thought process rolls over him like waves in a torrent by the ocean. Afghanistan, the man says, and Will is awash in a sea of illumination. He came back and practicing beforehand, given the time, he goes to his job. He's not sure what Tim's job is, but he sees it. Sees the way his mind ticks.

Maybe it's too noisy, too crowded with voices. Maybe his ghosts are haunting him, too. Maybe they're whispering 'see?' at him as they crumple to the floor, over and over again.

That's what pulls him out, ultimately. Lets him sift through everything and blink rapidly for a few moments, compiling his thoughts. This isn't about him. This is about the man in front of him.

"Afghanistan," He echoes, and he's about to say something when his back pocket buzzes and buzzes loudly. Will doesn't have a ring tone--hates ringtones, hates phones, but they're needed and it's a company issued cellphone and he offers a not-quite-smile for the second time before turning around.

"There's another one. Texting you the address, be there in 20," Jack Crawford says, and Will can't even open his mouth before he hangs up. He's left blinking, almost stunned, and looks over his shoulder at Tim.

"I..have to go."

[comfortablyerect]

Right now, he thinks he'd like to be back in Afghanistan. He'd always wanted to do a third tour, and only didn't because his commanding officers were uncertain about it, and his mother and put her face in his chest and cried about losing him. The latter, of course, made a bigger impact on his decision than the former; Sadie Gutterson did not cry easily.

But overseas, there was no down time. No lack of action or lack of danger. There was never enough time between missions and bullets flying for him to start feeling restless the way he does now. Being a marshal is good for him, in that respect. But it's not always enough.

This, right now, the pretty man with the great ass and the Weaver Stance, is enough. Not so much him as what he's done, which is give Tim something to do, an active goal, however brief it happened to be.

It's still likely that he'll find himself in a bar in a few days, picking a fight with a stranger. But for right now, this is good.

Will's phone buzzes loudly and Tim glances at his watch. Even if he speeds, he won't make it back on time. Art will just chew him out until Nelson or Raylan do something stupid to distract him.

"Me, too," he says, holstering his gun and starts taking a couple of steps back. He doesn't turn around yet, though. "Remember what I said about them elbows."

[unsociably]

"Yes," Will nods. Swallows hard, like there's something in his throat, and keeps his usual soft mumble. "Thank you."

It was a decent morning, Will supposes, save the grisly image of Garrett Jacob-Hobbs. He made a friend, after all. "Friend," more like. The quotation marks are palpable, he's sure.

But he nods and does his half-smile and actually shifts his stance as the other mentions his elbows. Waits just a beat longer than necessary before gathering his things and checking with the owner of the range that he has everything in order. He glances over just as he sees the man walk away, and is left with an image not unlike a fading bruise as he moves.



The light doesn't last for very long. Will sees the dark almost immediately after arriving at the crime scene, and it leaves Will so vivid and emotional he stands, numb, for a good hour. Jack has the decency to clear the other people out except for Katz and himself, and it's best like that.

He goes over the crime scene, out loud, and walks it with precision. Comments that the killer is lonely, screaming with no voice. Likely has some sort of impediment. Likely views himself as ugly.

Will Graham touches sin itself as he analyzes. Snaps out of it, twitching and a little disoriented. Katz looks impressed and worried, and Craford's poker face is usual.

"Let's go to base," He says to Will, and Will nods. Spends the entire car time thinking of what he did earlier, before the crime scene. Focusing on that so he can get the images out of his head. It works, for the most part.


People, Crawford explains, have already been setting up the Marshal's Office to provide space for them on this particular case. Will is unsurprised to hear there's already a cork board, supposedly.

"It has the victim's photos on it."

"It has the art," Will says softly as they pull up. And it is, really, art. There's a second victim to add, though, and Will's not looking forward to dissecting the crime scene again. Especially in an office he doesn't know where people can probably just walk in at any moment.

The office is small but Will's seen smaller--Jack walks in first, and then Katz and Will and the rest of them. They'd almost be flanking Crawford except Katz is in midsentence to Will who, save for glasses, a slightly rumpled jacket and a visitor's pass alongside his ID badge, looks the same has he does at the range. Jeans. Hiking boots. Flannel.

"Thank you," Jack is saying to Art, and Will isn't paying attention. Will can't pay attention to anything Katz is telling him, either, because his gaze is locked on to the desk furthest from the main entrance at the bullpen.

It's the man from Afghanistan. The veteran.

[comfortablyerect]

"Did you get lost?" is, predictably, the first thing Art says when Tim walks into the office an entire fifteen minutes late. He's leaning in the doorway of his office, frowning deeply, and Tim refrains from saying the first smartass remark that comes to mind, and instead settles on the second, significantly less sarcastic response.

"Line was long," he says, and drops a box of donuts on the table near the kitchenette area. That is also a joke, in and of itself — cops and donuts. So he still easily fills his bad joke quota for the day.

Art mumbles something that sounds distinctly unhappy, but grabs a donut before returning to his office, saying something about how sprinkles have no right to be on donuts. Just like that, it's all smoothed over and Tim and do his paperwork and think about the cute guy at the shooting range without being intensely frowned at by Art.

The rest of the afternoon goes by quiet smoothly, for the most part. Tim catches up on paperwork while Raylan procrastinates catching up on paperwork by making a paperclip chain while Rachel kicks everybody's asses at paperwork, a lot like the way she kicks everybody's asses at everything else. There's quiet chatter, and the donuts start disappearing one-by-one, and all the ones with sprinkles remained untouched by everybody except Nelson.

It's smooth sailing until one of the office girls rolls a cork board into the conference room, and somebody overhears Art talking on the phone about the feds coming in. Speculation flies, and Tim immediately opens an office betting pool.

"Has Raylan shot anyone recently?" The commotion for the small office is even enough to interest Rachel, and she asks the question while tapping her pen atop some finished paperwork.

"Shot or killed?" Tim asks. "'Cause those are two different answers."

Raylan frowns. "Why do y'all assume they're here for me?"

"They're always here for you," Rachel murmurs.

"It's where most people's bets are," Tim says, almost grinning as he taps the notebook in front of him, page filled with chicken-scratched names and numbers.

Their questions are answered soon enough when the FBI agents come strolling in, with all that same confidence and authority and pretentiousness that marshals tend to possess, too. It's just more annoying when it's directed at them. Tim's watching the big man in charge, mainly, talk quietly at Art, while Art wears his diplomatic face and gestures to the glass-walled conference room, letting the feds know they're welcome to whatever they need. Even the deputies are at their disposal.

Tim's gaze drifts back at the others until it lands on him. The man with the Weaver stance and the great ass. He expected local cop, possibly local detective. He did not expect out-of-state FBI. Tim finds himself staring, looking vaguely surprised.

[unsociably]

Will staring isn't unusual, but staring at someone or something that isn't a murdered corpse or a bloodied person is. It's the man from the gun range, the one with the nice eyes and jawline. Will can see a tad better now that he has his glasses, too--and he likes what he sees.

It's much better, he thinks, than the crime scene he'd just witnessed.

"Thank you," Jack Crawford is saying, and Will doesn't have to look away to know that Jack is using a poker face and clearly wants to do his own thing. Will tears his gaze away once Katz gently touches his arm.

"We won't waste your time if you don't waste ours," Jack addresses the group, "But unfortunately we need to work together to get this killer off the street."

"He's a fugitive, most likely," Will says, his voice soft but not mumbled--it's his teaching voice. He can't talk to a wide group of people but he can talk at them. "Not from here but in the area. He's probably military, formerly."

"This is Special Agent Will Graham and Special Agent Beverly Katz--anything they say go." Will looks uncomfortable. Katz's smile is thin. Jack introduces himself as well,and he's got the same authoritative figure and charisma as Art but minus, apparently, all of the sense of humour.

Will's gaze slides, periodically, to Tim as the rest of the impromptu lecture and warnings of what to look out for goes. It's standard procedure and pedantic of all of them, but required. Will wishes he was anywhere but in the middle of an office full of people that are already resenting him. Still, Jack finishes and before Will slides into the small room they've set up he moves slowly but with purpose to Tim's desk.

"I'd like to use you," he says softly, back to mumbling as he stares at the other's name plate. Tim Gutterson. "For your military experience."

[comfortablyerect]

The marshals listen with varying levels of attentiveness, and Tim's gaze hardly leaves Will Graham once. It's not their first rodeo, hunting down a serial killer or helping the feds do their job. And the FBI does need their help. Nobody knows Kentucky like Kentuckians, and nobody knows these winding back roads and miles of woods like a native would.

And though nobody likes working with the feds, they're not put out by this in the least. Every single one of them love the chase. Nobody becomes a marshal for the witness protection.

"Well," Tim says, nearly the moment Jack Crawford stops talking. "Looks like Rachel wins the office pool, seein' as she was the only one who didn't have money on Raylan shootin' someone."

"You're kiddin'." Raylan turns to face Rachel. "After all that fuss?"

Rachel only smiles. "Cash only, by the way."

Raylan's saying something about nobody in this office having any faith in him (including himself, Tim points out, seeing as even Raylan had money on him being investigated for a bad shooting again), and Tim's almost grinning when Will approaches his desk. He looks up, a little thrill going through him at the thought of them working together, at Will coming to talk to him in the first place.

Or mumble to him, as it is.

"Fine by me," Tim says, and picks up a stack of files as he stands. "Means Raylan here gets the honor of finishin' up my paperwork."

"Don't you--" Raylan starts but Tim's already leaning over to drop the files onto the other's desk before turning his full attention back to Will.

"Let's catch an asshole."

[unsociably]

There's other people that can do this, probably. Maybe even better suited than Tim, but that doesn't matter. What matters is Tim is agreeing for him to join them and Will knows he can handle it simply because of his time overseas.

Will stares at the worst of humanity on a daily basis, but Tim has lived it.

There are photos of the man grown with a tree, photos of the man and what he's done. Will adjusts his glasses.

"Tim Gutterson is going to be joining us," he says, and Katz glances over, smiles slightly, and Jack nods.

"Thank you."

"He was alive," Will says, motioning with his chin to the pictures. "All of his minor organs were replaced with floral arrangements and he was still alive."

"That's cruel," Katz states.

"No, it's art. Whoever did this wanted more than poetry; he wanted symbolism. He wanted beauty."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim has seen worse than this, and in person, too. He remembers once finding the mutilated body parts of American soldiers outside the abandoned building a terrorist cell was working out of, strung up on a wire like some sort of decoration, and he remembers recognizing some of the faces. He also remembers being one of the several soldiers who shot every one of those terrorists dead without a second of hesitation, whether or not they seemed willing to surrender.

He doesn't regret it, either. Not even now.

So the pictures don't even make him bat an eyelash. He leans in to get a better look at them, hand resting casually on his gun. He doesn't see any more beauty in this than he did in those strung up soldiers in Afghanistan.

"You said you thought he was former military," Tim says, and he turns his head to look at Will. "Why?"

[unsociably]

"At the scene," Will points out quietly, tapping one of the pictures with, "the way the body was laid, everything points to it."

"Will Graham is a specialist," Katz explains to Tim, "mostly in criminal profiling."

"I don't profile, I empathize."

"A little too well," Katz comments dryly. Will ignores her, Jack looks up from his talking with another officer to shoot her a look.

"The subject in question was a war hero, and this was done with respect. This isn't a murder, it's a send-off. A transformation. It's too neat, too structured,all of these flowers are closely associated with Victorian era mourning language, or flowers representing soldiers or warriors. It makes sense that it would be a military man--someone who has the patience to do this, the precision to cut just so, the utmost respect. Thank you for your help, earlier."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim leans back against the table, crossing his arms over his chest. Through the glass, he can see Raylan scowling as he shifts through paperwork and Rachel collecting her winnings. Nelson's broken the copier again and Art is saying something inaudible from the doorway of his office. Tim feels oddly cut off from it all, surrounded by straight-laced feds.

Will's voice is nice, though, and Tim listens to the quiet, steady mumbling as he explains all the symbolism and the finer psychological details that would go completely overlooked if it were just the marshals.

He glances at Will, brows arching a little in surprise. "You know what they say. Serve and protect and all that."

There's probably a clause in there about especially serving and protecting those with nice asses, but he doesn't add that.

Instead, he gestures at the photos. "Y'all know what kind of knife was used? Each branch of the military likes their own kind of shit — equipment and guns and weapons. Soldiers stick to their routines and habits even after they come home. Especially after they come home. If this guy's former military, I can almost guarantee that whatever knife he used is military issued, especially given what you said about all that send-off shit. Find the knife, find the branch of military."

[unsociably]

Katz looks delighted, and her smile widens, while Will half-nods in response, staring at the picture.

"Excellent idea," Jack admits, and there's a hint of begrudging acknowledgement in his voice. Clearly, the feds and the marshals not getting along isn't a one sided thing in the least. They agree to run lists and get a mook to do that, too.

They bounce things back and forth--Tim with his military exercise, Katz with forensics, Will with his empathy and Crawford keeping them on task. It's surprisingly efficient, even though ultimately they can't do much until certain things come from the lab, the knife is identified and the works. Katz goes to poke at the lab and eventually once work is over tells them she has a skype date with Zeller and Pryce and that she'll take it in the hotel room. Jack leaves, too, though it's without explanation even though Will already knows it's about his wife.

By the time Jack leaves, though, the entire office has gone save for Tim and Will and Will, leaning back, gently pushes on the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

"Do you have any aspirin?" He asks suddenly, heading piercing through him. It's from staring at all of the bodies, from thinking too much for such a long span of time.

[comfortablyerect]

Even Tim smiles, just a touch, though it's mostly smug. There's nothing quite like forcing the feds to admit that an idea that isn't their own is a good one. He counts it as a personal victory, and a victory for the marshals.

The pow-wow goes well, though, surprisingly enough. Probably because they're all distinctly aware they need each other in order to catch their killer. It's a little different from what the marshals are used to handling — usually, they're chasing bank robbers, tax evaders, people that commit fraud, and handling things like witness protection and asset forfeiture and prisoner transport. Hunting down serial killers is not exactly what they do.

That's why, begrudgingly, they need the FBI. And vice-versa. But between the lot of them and their various skills and expertise, they make some decent progress.

Tim just hopes they catch the guy before he kills again.

Things wind down, and eventually it's just him and Will. Tim does this on purpose. He could've gone home awhile ago, but Will stays, so Tim does too, until they're alone. Like the were at the shooting range. They're still flipping through files, papers spread out on tables, but it's lethargic. They've looked at this shit a million times, and they're just beating a dead horse.

"We got bourbon," Tim says, and it's mostly a joke. He's already moving to the propped open conference room door, ready to raid Raylan's desk or search the kitchenette for aspirin. Art probably has some, too, but he's a little more leery about breaking into the boss's office.

[unsociably]

"I miss bourbon," Will says, not without a trace of wistfulness in his voice as he leans back in the chair. He's not sure how to people, not really, but Tim is quiet and soft and reminds Will that sometimes, people are okay.

In an odd way, Will is reminded of Alana Bloom. He's not sure if it's a smart thing to associate the beautiful Bloom with the handsome Gutterson, but with his blood hammering in his ears and the feeling like nails on a chalkboard in his brain, Will doesn't much care.

"If you have any," He nods his 'yes.' "At the moment that sounds a lot better than aspirin."

They're not getting anywhere. They won't, not for a while, he imagines. Stepping back for a while is probably good, even though he's not sure how to do it. Not really.

"I'm beginning to see patterns in the paperwork that aren't even there."

[comfortablyerect]

"Better get your fill while you're here," Tim says, slipping behind Nelson's desk to retrieve a mostly full bottle of bourbon from the bottom of the filing cabinet. Nelson doesn't even know it's there, seeing as he hardly ever uses his own filing cabinet, so it's a good hiding spot.

Plus, if anybody ever finds it, Nelson gets to take the fall.

There's better shit in Art's office, but it's A) locked in a safe and B) he'd get his ass kicked something bad for taking it. Best just to stick to the normal stuff if he wants to keep his job.

"Nothin' quite like home brewed." He pauses at the kitchenette to grab a couple of mugs, one of them a Rangers mug and the other a U.S. Marshals mug. Not quite right for drinking bourbon, but it's what's clean and accessible. He comes back into the conference room, taking the seat beside Will and giving him the Marshals mug, pouring a little bit of bourbon into each glass.

"To tell you the truth, none of this even looks like words to me anymore."

He pushes the papers away and pulls his bourbon closer. There's a time for everything, and the time for staring at crime scene photos and investigation reports is decidedly over.

[unsociably]

Will takes it with utmost gratitude, and it shows in his face--he's weary and tired but that's what happens when you spend all day in the mind of a serial killer.

Slinking down and rolling his sleeves up seems like the best plan for combatting this, and it's only after that that he takes a sip from the mug. It's warm and good, even though it's not Virginia's type of bourbon. He doesn't cringe, doesn't do anything but savor it before swallowing.

Idly, he wonders if his dogs are fed.

"I can't shut my mind off," He confesses. "I'm going to sleep and this is all I'm going to see until he's caught."

[comfortablyerect]

Tim understands it. He understands it in the way he can't keep his back to an open room, in the way he likes to keep his gun within arm's reach. He understands it in staying up too late because he doesn't like what happens when he falls asleep. He understands in the way that the sound of fireworks makes his skin crawl and he avoids every piece of debris and pot hole in the road when he's driving. In the way that when the sun beats down too hot on his neck, it almost feels like he can taste sand.

He gets it because he's the same way, more or less. Can't ever seem to turn his brain off of war mode.

He touches the rim of his mug with his fingertips, studying it thoughtfully. Then, he knocks the contents back in one smooth, well-practiced movement, pouring himself some more. He wants to taste something other than sand and smoke.

"Does it give you nightmares?" he asks quietly. It's a personal question. One that could easily lead into territory even he doesn't care for. But he looks up at Will anyway when he asks it.

[unsociably]

Will doesn't answer. Not right away, and it's obvious he's not ignoring the question, just trying to find the words to actually describe what, exactly, goes on. He takes another sip of his drink, puts it down, and proceeds to pour himself some more as well. He'll pay for the bottle later, he supposes, if he drinks enough.

His glasses are off, but he looks at Tim and it's nothing asked or anything of the sort--it's raw, even if there's no emotion to his voice.

"The same amount as you, I'd imagine."

Because he knows--he wasn't there, didn't experience what Tim went through, but he knows. Knows Tim will be waking up in cold sweats just as often as Will does, and both of them will drink and both of them will never talk to anyone about it. Will will fish and Tim will shoot and that's what they'll do instead of facing their issues.

He lifts the cup to his mouth and, mid swallow, chances an actual look at Tim again.

[comfortablyerect]

Tim's patient, nearly endlessly so. If Will wants to answer, he will when he's ready, and if he doesn't want to answer, then he won't, and it's not a big deal. Honestly, Tim wouldn't blame him. He wouldn't answer the question if he were being asked. It's a topic he prefers to avoid, and one he's not actually drunk enough to broach.

He's not even sure why he did. Maybe because Will reminds him a little bit of himself.

Tim smiles, just a little, and it's small and void of any warmth or humor. That sounds about right. Serial killers, terrorists — different brands of the same kind of terrible shit.

He does not envy Will, though he imagines Will doesn't envy him either.

"At the shootin' range," Tim starts, and pauses briefly to take another drink of his bourbon. "You said you had a hunch that I was military. Is that really all it was, or was there more to it than that? What gave me away?"

Not that he's hiding it, but he doesn't really advertise it, either. He rarely wears his dog tags for a reason. And he's not really built like a soldier. Not anymore, at least.