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]

"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.