Author's Note: This is for Fangirl29. Remember me when you win the lottery.

Aimpoint - Chapter One

Tim slid through the doors into the Marshal's office behind two coworkers arriving at the same time. It had been over a week since the shooting and he hadn't got the summons into Art's office yet. He was dreading it. It was unfortunate for him that the only desk available when he started at the Lexington bureau was the one nearest Art. Some days he felt like the kid at school who always sat up by the teacher, the one always in trouble. In fact, he was that kid in school. He wasn't disruptive, he was always a bit of a loner, but he didn't pay attention in class and for some reason that always got the teachers upset with him.

He grabbed a coffee, sat as his desk and made himself as small as possible, his face right in his work.

Raylan amused himself watching him for a moment then leaned over the barrier and whispered, "Do you still have your ghillie suit? Maybe you should start wearing it in."

Tim narrowed his eyes at him and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could offer a retort an oppressive shadow grew over his desk and he looked up to see Art looming in front of him.

"Too late," Raylan said, and sat back at his desk.

"Tim," Art said, looking serious, "a word in my office."

Tim sighed, tossed his pen down and followed Art. When he got to the office door he stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned on the frame.

Art walked around behind his desk and sat down. He picked up a file from the stack on his in-tray and opened it.

"I got the report from the AUSA," he started and only then noticed that Tim was still in the doorway. He scowled at him. "All the way in," he said motioning to the chairs impatiently, "and shut the door."

Tim's eyes instinctively darted to the exit as he stepped inside the office, pulling the door closed. He put on his best gallows' walk and slumped into a chair.

"You and Rachel are clear on the shootings. No one expected it otherwise." He closed the report and leaned back in his chair his eyes focused a little too directly on Tim, serious, maybe even sympathetic. Tim preferred the scowl. "I know you and me have talked a bit about what happened. But you," he said, pointing a finger sternly at Tim, "still have to have a sit down with the psychologist."

Tim made a face.

"You know you look like a four-year-old when you do that," Art reprimanded him. "It's policy, so suck it up." Art shook his head. "I don't get you. You probably crawled through shit, lay in your own piss, and froze your ass off sleeping on rock pile in Afghanistan. Could seeing her possibly be worse?"

"It's worse," Tim replied, looking at Art defiantly.

"Well then become Director and you can change the policy," Art said waving his hand dismissively.

"Maybe I will."

"I'd like to see that."

He was surprised to discover that Art wasn't joking when he said he'd like to see that. It softened Tim up a little.

"I'm going to call Ms. Ootes myself and get you a time. You've put it off too long."

"Could you make the appointment for the end of the day so I can go out and drink after?" he asked peevishly.

"Now that's the spirit. Maybe Raylan and I will join you. We'll get you drunk and pry some war stories out of you."

"I'm trained to withstand torture."

"Then you shouldn't have any trouble with the psychologist," Art said, waving him out. "Now git, and send in Rachel."

Tim left feeling a bit uncomfortable. He understood people wanting to hear stories about Afghanistan, it was curiosity mostly. But stories led to questions, and questions led to places he wasn't prepared to go. He had made light of it and hoped that Art was just teasing.

"So, you live to fight another day," Raylan jested when Tim returned. "Didn't hurt so much, huh?"

Tim grimaced at him, "I'm not out of it yet. I've still got to talk to the vulture, but Art promised me treats afterward."

"That's not nice," Rachel said, offended for the psychologist.

"You should hear what Raylan calls her," Tim added defensively.

"Not in mixed company," Raylan warned him.

"By the way, you're up," Tim said to Rachel and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder at Art's office. "If you whine enough, maybe he'll offer you treats, too."

"I can't think of a treat that would make up for a visit with horse-face," she said under her breath as she passed them.

Raylan and Tim, wide-eyed with surprise, watched her walk away, then turned to each other and smirked.

The day passed quietly, phone calls, meetings, paperwork, lunch, but sometime late in the afternoon Tim's desk was again darkened by an ominous shadow.

"Chief," Tim said without looking up.

"Tim," Art responded and waited.

Tim leaned back in his chair and grinned up at him; Art grinned back. Tim's smile faltered.

"What?"

"I just wanted you to know that I listen when my little Deputies talk to me."

"Okay," Tim's smile moved completely off his face to make room for worry.

"I got you an appointment with the shrink. It's for late in the day like you requested," he said cheerfully, "4:30 pm."

"Uh, thanks," Tim said, not sounding particularly grateful. "When?"

"Today." Art's face bloomed into full happy. "See you at Molly's afterward." He chuckled contentedly and returned to his lair.

"Fuck." Tim looked at his watch. It was already 4:15 pm. It was probably best that he had no time to get worked up about it, though he could already feel his nerves starting to vibrate. Resigned, he packed up his desk and headed for the door, thinking ten minutes of fresh air and sunshine before his appointment might not be a bad idea.

His ten minute excursion was whittled down to six minutes when someone stopped him to ask a question on the way out, then to three minutes waiting for the elevator, then when he finally decided to take the stairs there really was no time left so he headed straight to Stephanie Ootes's office. He knocked and opened the door when he heard her call him in. He had just stepped inside when he stopped himself abruptly. The room was familiar, but the woman at the desk was not. She looked up and smiled.

Still holding the door, Tim turned his head to read the name plate, but there wasn't one. "Sorry," he said, "wrong office."

"Deputy Gutterson?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then you have the right office. I'm replacing Ms. Ootes temporarily. My name is Miljana Cajic. Please, come in."

She stood up and walked over to shake his hand. She was petite and a little exotic for Kentucky, with dark hair and striking blue eyes. Tim would later describe her as 'lovely' to Art and Raylan. He couldn't come up with a better word.

"I read the report describing what happened. I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "It must have been hard for everyone, but especially you." She waved casually for him to take a seat and took one herself.

Tim was confused by her manner. He had lines rehearsed for Stephanie; he had nothing for her.

"Art told me you tried to ensure that the young man wouldn't be around for the arrests. But some things, I guess, are just out of our control." She smiled sadly and he relaxed. "I also get the impression that this isn't the first time you've had to end a life in the line of duty."

He decided it was a question and replied, "Not even close."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "How long have you been with the Marshals Service? You don't look very old."

She really was lovely. Lovely to look at; lovely to listen to. Just a hint of an accent.

"Deputy Gutterson?" she was looking at him, concerned.

"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly, "distracted. Uh, have you not read my file?"

"I prefer not to for the first meeting. There are always a lot of biases in these," she said pointing to his file on her desk. "I hope that doesn't bother you. Some people think I'm making light of their situation, but I don't mean it that way at all."

He was perplexed. "I was in the military before," he said simply.

She nodded, "Afghanistan? Iraq?"

"Afghanistan."

"What did you do with the military?"

"I was a sniper."

"Oh, that makes sense."

"Why does that make sense?" he asked defensively.

"I just couldn't understand why someone from the Marshals office had a rifle," she explained. "I thought you all used hand guns – except the SOG teams, I guess. They must appreciate having someone with your skills." She paused and took a deep breath. "So, this is where I'm supposed to ask you about your feelings about the shooting, but is there anything you'd rather I ask you?"

"Have you ever lost someone, I mean violently?" he challenged. It just came out, out of frustration. It was a hard question, but so was how are you feeling about killing Frisk? And he was tired of talking about it.

She gave him a measured look and smiled. "Changing chairs, are we? Okay, come on."

She got up and motioned for him to take her seat. When they had switched places she composed herself and said, "I'm Serbian. I was young when the wars broke out in Yugoslavia and my parents left as quickly as they could and came to the United States. I never saw any of the violence except on TV, but I lost family in Kosovo, a favorite cousin and an aunt, and I have two school friends that I've never been able to find again. Does that count?"

"How does it make you feel?" Tim asked her still defensive, but maybe a little curious, too.

"I used to be angry and wish I could hurt somebody. Now, I just feel helpless. It all seems so stupid."

"I'm still at the wanting to kick somebody's teeth in stage," he said bluntly.

"That's better than the alternative, which is what everyone is concerned about with you," she said. "Everyone is worried that it was too hard a choice for you."

"If I said I wish I hadn't pulled that trigger, I'd be lying," he said looking at the floor. "I had a duty to protect Rachel."

"Your brother-in-arms."

"Yeah."

"Have you found someone whose teeth you could kick in?" she asked.

He frowned at the wall. "I've thought about it. The mother maybe, but she's kicking in her own teeth. Even then I'd probably have to keep going back farther. Go after her folks, or maybe the coal companies. It gets kind of blurry." He rubbed his hand over his face and looked up at her wearily.

She stared back at him for a few minutes then signaled for him to change seats again. He smiled, amused by the game. She sat cross-legged in her own chair, rested her elbows on her knees and plunked her head in her hands.

"I'll tell you what," she said smiling, but serious. "If it starts to bother you in any way that you can't handle, or if you're just tired of having the same conversation with yourself, come back and talk to me. I'd be happy to see you here. Tomorrow, if you'd like. You look tired. Go home."

He stood up, used to being dismissed and taking it like a soldier. He thanked her for her time, and left. Out in the hall it dawned on him how clever she was, because he was sorry to leave.

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