Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Eighteen
"I'm going to take a shower," Tim said, stretching and touching the window ledge at the top of Will's bed.
The sheets were a mess, tangled and twisted, but unlike Tim's bed, the sheets on Will's bed were always a mess, day or night, so their current condition was no indicator of what they'd been doing that afternoon. They had been messing the sheets, talking when they weren't out of breath – lazy and languid taking turns with passionate and urgent. These were two states of Tim's existence that Rachel would likely never get a peek at and Will felt it was a shame – she deserved to know there was something better for him. He looked years younger stretched naked on the bed and Will was the only one enjoying the difference.
"There are towels on the shelf and help yourself to…whatever. Beer and porch after?"
Shirt, pants, Tim picked them up on his way to the bathroom. "Beer and porch. Sounds good." He stopped at the doorway. "Is there a range around here?"
"I…don't know. I use the one at Quantico."
"Indoor?"
A nod confirming and Tim disappeared from the doorway.
Will slipped into his boxers and walked down to the kitchen. He peered in the fridge, counted the beer bottles, added some, then shuffled things around wondering what he could scrounge up for a meal. He snorted, thinking that Hannibal could have whipped through his kitchen and presented an elegant three-course dinner without taking off his suit jacket, though it probably would've meant being short a guest.
There was an aboriginal myth he remembered stumbling across during some research, the story went that when the first man and woman had children they loved them so much they ate them. The gods decided to make the children, or maybe it was the love, a little less perfect to avoid it happening again. There must be some truth in it, something latent in the human psyche, he decided thinking back on some of his cases, that tendency seemed to surface periodically.
There was meat in the freezer and he pulled out something that looked like chicken and set it to thaw in some tepid water in the sink. Good enough. He liked his guest too much to make him the menu, or loved him less than perfectly anyway.
The bathroom was small. Will waited until Tim was finished to use it, not sure of the etiquette, or if there were an etiquette. He'd never had a house guest.
A shortened shower, afraid he'd come down and find Tim gone, Will dressed quickly, hurried back downstairs. But Tim didn't look about to leave anytime soon. He was comfortable in the kitchen, already halfway through a beer and perched on the counter watching the dogs sniffing around the lower cupboards.
"Mice," Will said, explaining their behavior. "Usually I've caught them all by now or they head back outside for the summer but this year I have a loiterer…or two."
His phone rang, suddenly, loud, and he flinched, tensed a little. It was Alana Bloom not Jack Crawford, not business, not a body…or two.
"Alana." He tried to sound unperturbed, came off a bit jaunty. "No, I'm fine. Rather…relaxed, actually." Tim was smirking at him and Will turned his back to him and walked into the living room. "Uh…today? It's…really…probably not a good time. I…took in another stray last night. He's a little skittish."
Tim hopped down from the counter and walked past to the front door, smacked Will's head playfully with an open palm as he went by.
"Of course, yes, you can meet him, it's just…well…not now. I'd suggest…maybe next week?" He added quickly, "If he's still here. He may not stick around. You know how it is."
Tim was out on the porch, his laughter carried indoors.
"No, really. I'm fine. This hiatus…was a good idea."
They talked about the weather and the upcoming trial and then Will hung up and wondered if she was worried about him as a friend or as a psychiatrist. A week or two ago and the question might have kept him occupied for the rest of the day and likely the next too, but today, he didn't care and she slipped from his mind completely as he set his phone down.
He joined Tim on the porch and the world beyond it seemed distant and unthreatening for a change, slower too. The dogs came and went, happy to have people at home.
The silence was easy – a shared solitude – and passed the better part of an hour for them. Will broke it first, reluctantly, but it was important. "Do you want another beer?"
Tim replied with a nod, not wanting to add to the noise yet either.
"When's the trial start?" he asked when Will sat again. "I heard you mention it."
"In a couple of weeks. It's already been delayed once. They keep identifying more victims to add to the list."
Will had a way of speaking, almost a whisper, that made any conversation seem intimate. Tim liked the sound of it and asked another question just to hear him talk more. "How much do you have to be involved?"
"I'm the lead investigator and profiler, a victim too, of sorts, the arresting agent, a former patient…a former friend." Will spat out the last word, distancing himself from it. "I think I'll be on the stand for…quite a while. Probably longer than Dr. Lecter himself."
"It's gonna be a fucking zoo. Baltimore, right?"
Will nodded.
"Then what?"
"Then what?" Will looked at Tim briefly, dropped his eyes. "Then…I'm back at it, I guess. Back at Quantico either working for Jack or lecturing. I…what about you?"
"Me? Same old. I got training coming up. I'm surprised Art let me take this week off. I'm gone again at the end of the month."
"Training for what?"
"Tactical. Special Operations Group." A wry head tilt. "It's the annual shindig. I am so looking forward to it."
Will thought about that. "You've…it's likely you've covered a trial I've been involved with, then."
"Yep. I might've been staring down my scope admiring your ass. But you'd've been wearing that professor jacket probably, covering it."
Will grinned, liking that idea. "You might be working Hannibal's trial."
"I doubt it. My team's just come off rotation."
Will didn't quite understand what that meant, but he had another month's vacation to research the duties of the US Marshals' SOG team if he felt like it. Sliding a little down in his chair, he stretched his legs out, determined to enjoy the remainder of the afternoon with Tim, not sure how long he had. He couldn't help but consider Hannibal's remarks about his need for solitude. The man's intellect and influence would always be present in Will's thoughts. Hannibal wasn't only a monster; sometimes he was his other talents, and an astute observer of human character was one of them.
If he and Hannibal had continued the conversation about relationships, if they could have, then Hannibal likely would've commented that Will collected strays to avoid loneliness but preserve his need for solitude. He looked sideways at Tim, contemplating how he fit.
"Since you're now my latest stray," Will said, laughing at himself, "I have to tell you – you remind me of the Jack Russell." He pointed to the smaller dog sniffing around Tim's Harley. "He's way too smart and frustratingly independent and…fabulous company."
Tim took a long draw on his beer and considered the comparison. "Only I'm more like a three-legged dog."
"A three-legged…dog?"
"Uh-huh."
Will played along. "Front or back leg missing?"
Tim thought about it. "Oh, I'm missing a front leg, for sure. Still got lots of power, but I have trouble keeping my balance."
Tim chuckled at his own assessment of himself, grinned and threw the face at Will and Will let it hurt him for once. He joked back anyway, trying to cover his feelings.
"I'll bet that makes it hard to chase your tail."
"Or easier, depending on which direction I run." A twirling finger one way then the other.
Dogs keep a promise a person can't. Alana's words came back to Will then and slapped him with a dose of reality, but he knew they couldn't change anything now. He was who he was – he took in strays. When did he ever not? The problem was – and he could see this problem quite clearly even through his current crush – that this one could, and would, come and go as he pleased. There was no promise and unconditional was very unhuman. It was a risk. Forewarned made it easier, and harder. Now who was chasing his tail?
Will watched as Tim dropped the face and started chewing on a lip with a wry and uncertain head tilt. He looked vulnerable.
"You…don't have to sleep with the dogs, you know." Will offered him a safe place if he wanted it.
The eyebrows moved up again but the face didn't reappear. "Thanks, but they don't have nightmares."
"Yes, I'm very aware of that and I'm incredibly jealous of them." He looked over at his pack.
"They were complaining about you last night. You were keeping us awake."
"Really? Sorry about that. I didn't even…wake up."
"I figured if I came up to calm you down, I'd probably scare the shit out of you." Tim made a soft noise, a huff, shook his head. "Anyway, don't worry about it, I was already awake." He took a deep breath and confessed, "Bad dreams of my own."
"So you've got monsters under your bed too." Will wasn't surprised to hear it, reached a hand out to try and touch what was vulnerable, ran it through Tim's hair.
Tim started to pull away but stopped, said, "Do they stay under there, your monsters? 'Cause mine crawl out and right into bed with me."
Bitter like boiled coffee – Will could taste it. "Mine have names and addresses and social security numbers," he said, commiserating. "But, to answer the question, no, the monsters under my bed are not well behaved. They come out, regularly. In fact, I can't remember the last time I actually slept alone."
"Promiscuous without any risk of disease."
"Now that's looking on the bright side." Will was relieved to talk about it, afraid before of being found out and rejected, wondered if Tim was too. Likely. Let's put that fear to rest. "Well, we might as well share the bed then…along with your monsters…and mine…and let the dogs get a decent sleep. Are you staying the night?"
A smile flittered across Tim's face like a specter, melancholy. He wouldn't look at Will and Will wished he would, some signal. He understood then how frustrating he must be for others, always avoiding eye contact. He waited for something but Tim just stared hard at his bike, looking like he was contemplating leaving.
Wanting to still him, hold him in place, Will reached out again but he was blocked before he could connect, his hand gripped tightly by one of Tim's.
With his other hand, Tim reached behind his back and brought out a handgun, hidden, always present, and settled it into Will's palm.
"If I'm gonna teach you how to shoot properly, the first thing we're gonna do is fix your grip." He folded Will's fingers around the gun. "Relax," he said, slid his chair closer and reached for Will's other hand. "Don't squeeze. Let it sit. Relax." He placed the fingers on the second hand over the first. "Like that. Now relax. You're strangling it." He let go. "We'll go shooting tomorrow. And I need to get on the internet." He looked at Will finally. "Find a decent outdoor range if I'm gonna stick around a few days."
Will braved a smile, encouraging, and relaxed his grip on the gun.
Tim called in on the Friday and asked for a second week. Art was ecstatic – it meant one less issue with the woman in Human Resources and a bit of weight off his worry scale.
Before the second week was up Tim was packing to go. Will had gone to the store for beer and food, pulled into the driveway and noticed immediately the bags loaded on the Harley.
Tim walked out the door with his rifle case and helmet.
"Going hunting?" Will asked lightly but his legs wouldn't move, lead in every limb.
"I got called in," Tim said. "Fuckers. I'm supposed to be at the bottom of the list this month. Apparently they need extra spotters for something."
"Spotters?"
"Snipers."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
Tim stopped what he was doing. "I gotta fly out of Dulles. Is there a safe place there to leave my bike?"
"Uh, not really, just the parking lot."
"Shit."
"Leave it here. You can park it in the shed. I'll drive you to the airport."
"Nah, you don't have to."
"Tim, it's not even twenty minutes," Will insisted, waving a hand up the road. "And maybe I'll get my motorcycle license while you're gone. I've always wanted one and, God knows, I've got the time."
Tim handed over his helmet, grinned a challenge. "Knock yourself out. I'll be back to pick it up when I'm done whatever needs doing."
"Okay then." Will took the helmet, grinned foolishly, said, "I have a motorcycle." And a guaranteed return ticket.
"Hurt her and I'll kill you. She's my baby. And keep your dogs from pissing on the tires."
"They're staking their territory."
"On a motorcycle? That's the definition of futility."
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