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]

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.