Author's note: My apologies to those who haven't had a chance to watch Hannibal (um, guest, whoever you are), but Will Graham was the only one I could easily picture as a partner for Tim Gutterson. Crossovers are problematic. Um...okay...carry on...


Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Thirteen

The smell of coffee is a civilized alarm, Will thought through the haze of sleep, that and the sound of a voice speaking quietly in the next room was an unusual luxury. Normally he was woken rudely by the buzzer of his clock radio or his phone or the choral barking of his gang of strays or the horrific images of his subconscious. But not this morning. He stretched, sat up, well-rested, a bit muddled still. Daylight was soaking the room.

He slipped quietly into his shorts and eyed the bed, a jungle of sheets and pillows. He chuckled to himself, thinking Tim was going to have a tough time making that back into a proper military rack. Padding softly over to the doorway, he peeked around the corner into the living area. Tim was sitting at his computer, not looking long out of bed himself. He had his head through the neck of a T-shirt, but hadn't gotten it further than that, showered, hair wet and toweled dry, up on end, his phone to his ear, head in his hand and yawning.

"Sure, I can be in then. What? Will Graham?" Tim shot a look toward the bedroom, saw Will standing there watching him, made the face. "Yeah, I can find him." He pointed to his phone then to Will and grinned when Will dashed back into the bedroom, reappearing with his cell and turning it on.

"Okay," Tim said to his caller, "I'll see you in a bit." He set the phone down beside his keyboard. "Your boss has called my boss three times already this morning." He pushed his arms through the sleeves on his shirt. "How much trouble are you in?"

"Plenty, I'm sure." Will was reading through his messages, grimacing. "And I already got an earful last night."

Tim thought about his conversation with Rachel as he asked, "Coffee?"

"Yes, please."

He stood up but Will waved him back.

"No, no. I'll get it. You want some?"

Tim nodded, sat gingerly back in his chair, unsure about this, unsure about anything, frowning as Will disappeared into his kitchen.

"Remind me," Will called out. "Black, right?"

"Uh, yeah, black."

Will came around the corner again with two mugs, had to slalom past the coffee table and the couch, handed Tim his share. "I used to love it with cream. Then I moved…way out from the city. It's a twenty minute drive to the nearest store. I learned to like it black." He leaned on the back of the sofa.

Tim didn't respond.

Will blew on his coffee nervously, his eyes riveted on the rifle and cross-hairs tattoo on Tim's wrist. There were reminders everywhere in the apartment of Tim's involvement in last night's drama. "How hard is this going to be for you?" Will asked.

"What?"

"The shooting."

"It's fine. Rachel was there. Her statement'll make the investigation pretty straightforward."

"That's…not what I'm talking about." Will sipped his coffee, looked surprise that it was decent enough. The thermos-full Tim had made the night he and Raylan took Will up to Olive Hill was much stronger. He took another sip for fortitude then tried to fix eye contact with Tim. "I was wondering how you were holding out…with the shooting."

"Me?"

"Am I not speaking English?"

"Yeah, you're speaking English but you're not making any sense." Tim frowned. "What about me?"

"I've done my share of therapy…and...I could probably run a decent session now…with you, but…I hate their tricks. I'm trying to be straight here. Are you okay? You shot and killed a man last night."

"Yeah, I did. You want me weeping about it?" He looked up with wide puppy eyes, then smirked. "Nah, you know I don't think I could even fake it. It doesn't bother me. You're off the hook. You don't have to feel bad, and you don't have to play therapist. I'm good."

Unconvinced, Will took another sip of his coffee, tried to find a different way to come at the conversation. "I'm… Look, I'm still struggling with mine. I have nightmares. I see the guy still, in faces on the street. Garret Jacob Hobbs." He spoke the name by rote, like he was reciting for a history exam, etched into his memory. "How can you not…?"

"How can I not care?" Tim set his mug down and pushed his chair back, facing Will. He thought for a minute, shrugged. "I just don't."

"What do you mean you just…don't? You're not a sociopath or a psychopath. At least I'm reasonably confident you're not."

"Before I feel good about that, just how confident were you about Hannibal Lecter?"

"Uh, that's…that's a fair point. Maybe you are a sociopath." Will twitched a grin. "Though, I hope not."

"Okay, now I'm feeling bad about you doubting yourself."

"Well, then you're not a…"

"Sociopath," Tim finished for him. "Good to know." He snorted.

"I can see it, Tim. I know it eats at you on some level."

Tim thought about it some more, worrying his lip. This is what he didn't want; this is why he didn't share his coffee. "I can't go there. Okay? I don't go there. It's like I'm two separate pieces of string. There's the one that I became at some point, over there," he waved a hand toward the east, "and that's the one that can pull the trigger and doesn't give a shit. And the other one, that one's living in this apartment and showing up for work and not thinking about that and, you know, living the life, right? I tried for a while, fixing the two together. The only way I could do it was to tie myself up in knots. I'm not going there again. I keep it separate."

"I doubt somehow that that's healthy."

"Shit, like I care if it's healthy or not. Shooting people isn't healthy either but sometimes it's the only way you get to play it."

Will looked about to say something else, looked at Tim like he could still see a knot despite all Tim's efforts to keep things from cross-contaminating.

Tim was getting agitated, stood up abruptly, halting any further discussion. "You just got more out of me than I've said to anyone, ever, even the wizard, so shut the fuck up. I'm done with it. Okay? It's done. Art wants us in the office in twenty minutes."

Will dropped his eyes to the floor, didn't look up when Tim took his coffee and headed into the kitchen. "The wizard?" He tried the word out.

Tim stopped, half-turned. "Army-speak."

Will ran the phrase around his head, grinned. "'Off to the see the wizard.' Military psychologist?"

"Bingo."

"You see one often?"

"Just at my discharge, for a psych eval. I'm not stupid. You go see one when you're on the front lines and it's an automatic label – 'fuck up.' You're done."


"I told your boss you were passed out drunk on Tim's couch." Art was standing with his arms crossed looking like he wanted to be angry but not quite able to summon up the energy for it. He had to hold it in reserve for his own people.

"He'll believe that," Will said, tried on a grin.

"Well, it's believable, especially knowing Tim. Rachel said you two were talking bourbonfest when she left last night. You might as well stick to the truth – hurts less in the long run."

Rachel had smiled warmly for Will when he and Tim walked into the bullpen, laughed out loud with the look Tim gave her.

"Alright, so, everyone has to write a report, from the head of the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit to their lead profiler," looking over his glasses at Will, Art added, "– that's you – and including, but not restricted to, the Bureau Chief of the Lexington Marshals Office – that's me – and Rachel and Tim." He gestured to the chairs by his desk, plunked himself in his. "Sit, gentlemen. I have some questions. Agent Graham…"

"Uh, call me Will, please."

Art smiled politely, "Will..." He leaned back, dropped his reading glasses on his desk. "What possessed you to call my deputy? Did you have to?"

"Uh…"

"He knew I'd show up," Tim said, again the face.

"Yeah, I figured as much. Don't get me wrong, Agent Graham…"

"Will."

"Will… I'd rather write a report explaining why my deputy drove miles out of his way for a case he had no business being involved in, drew his United States Marshals Service issued sidearm and used said official sidearm to shoot a man that he had no business being anywhere near – making it inconveniently my business, by the way – than read a report about the death of another LEO. I'm glad he and Rachel were there." Art glanced over at Tim. "He's glad, too. He loves an excuse to shoot someone."

Tim grinned; Will winced and looked at Tim to catch his reaction to Art's statement. There was the face again, and a stiff shrug.

"Alright, let's hear it from the top – one at a time. Will, you first. Tim, go start writing."

Tim stood up. "I'm going to get a coffee."

"And why are you telling me?"

"So you don't start yelling when I don't head straight to my desk."

"Uh-huh." Art narrowed his eyes. "I'm watching you."

An hour later Art was shooing Will out of the double doors to the hallway. "Now straight to the hotel, young man. I don't want another phone call from Special Agent Crawford asking where the hell you are. And I sincerely hope never to see you again."

The tone was good-natured enough and Will took it in stride. He chanced a glance back to Tim's desk but the Marshal had his head in his report and didn't look up.


"So you shot a serial killer?" Raylan said it out loud. Nobody else had yet. It sounded like a cool thing in a bar after a couple of rounds.

"Yeah, and you cut an arm off yours."

"I did not. Limehouse did that."

"Well, you had a hand in it."

Art choked on his beer. "Oh God, Tim, we've had enough bad puns on that one. Stop it."

"Besides, there was never any proof that he was a certified serial killer," said Raylan, tilted his head back and let the last of his drink drip into his mouth. "Though he had the look."

Tim tapped his glass on the table, set it down finally and pushed it away, empty. "You ever let it bother you?"

"What, the shooting? Depends."

"On what?"

"On how badly I wanted to do it."

Tim looked to Art for his two-cents worth. Art said, "It still bothers me."

That stopped the conversation until the waitress came and they all ordered another drink, each of them feeling a little too sober.

"I thought I might find you here." Three heads spun around. Will was standing behind them, ill-at-ease. "Can I…join you?"

Art spoke first, "Agent Graham, I hate to think of the profile you've sketched of the Lexington Marshals Office if you looked for us first here in the bar."

Will smiled. "Clearly I'm good at my job."

"So it seems. Pull up a chair."

Will did, sat. "I'll get this round," he said. "I think I owe you for all the trouble." He flicked a brief glance at Tim trying to gauge if he minded the intrusion, couldn't get a read.

"I think we should charge the evening up to the estate of your deceased psycho," Art suggested. "Do you think the courts would allow it?"

"He was wealthy enough."

The physical reaction to the statement was comical – all three Marshals leaned in, clearly interested.

"He was a plastic surgeon. I was hoping Rachel would be here so I could tell her. She had him pegged as a doctor."

"Isn't doctor on the list of careers for psychopaths?" Raylan asked.

"Yes, that and…"

"Law enforcement," three voices finished the statement.

"We were just discussing our own experiences in that regard," Art said, turned to Will. "You ever have to pull the trigger and mean it, Agent Graham?"

"Just once. It was…messy."

"Then you can drink with us. Cheers."

"Cheers," Will replied, no cheer in it.

Art stayed for just the one last drink. Tim stood to go after the next one, the other two joining him. They split up at the door, Raylan walking home to his bar, Tim and Will heading in the other direction.

They walked without saying anything. Will hesitated outside Tim's building.

"I've got some nice bourbon upstairs." The voice was amused, inviting.

"I thought I was going to have to beg."

"Nope."

Tim was uncommunicative, unreachable, untouchable, until he closed the door to his apartment behind them.


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