Marshaling Enough Empathy – Chapter Twenty-Seven
"They're keeping him the night," Rachel said, walking across Will's path when he entered the hospital doors. She put out a hand and stopped him when he tried stepping around her. "Are you okay?"
"I've been asked that question," Will surveyed the room while he did a mental count, "…at least a dozen times tonight."
"Well then, you should have an answer worked out by now so it won't take too much effort to tell me."
He let himself pause a moment, the warmth in her face drawing him in. He let himself smile. He let himself feel his own feelings briefly. He made his confession to her. "I'd shoot him again if I could. Usually…I have some pity for them." He shook his head, made the face, dropped it quickly thinking that Rachel might recognize it and think he was stealing it from Tim. "But not this time. I'm…mostly worried that I'll start sympathizing with the victims' families too much now. I don't think I could handle that. Not…that and everything else."
Will looked past her down the hall as he spoke, down to the floor when he'd finished, around the room again while she considered his response.
"Thank you," said Rachel. "I'll bet that's not the answer everyone else got."
"Probably not the one I'll give Tim either, if he ever asks."
"Don't count on it."
He chuckled. "You know him well."
"Only compared to some."
"Do you think he'll see me?"
"Don't give him the choice." She stepped aside finally and pointed down the hall. "Fifth door on the right. Art's talking to him."
Will didn't hurry down the hall, still deciding if he should even stay and see Tim or go straight to the hotel room, take some painkillers and sleep on it, all of it. Part of him, the rational part, felt it better to allow the emotions to self-level before facing Tim's forced indifference; part of him, the other part, wanted to trace the outline of the familiar face – needed to trace the outline. He put on the face again for himself only, raised eyebrows and a grin for comedy. It didn't feel stolen; it felt easy. It should be so easy. The thought went through his head as he pushed open the door.
"…not coming in tomorrow, you're taking the week off. Longer, in fact, and I guarantee they're going to insist that you talk to someone about this." Art was on a roll, a finger pointed sternly pinning Tim to the bed by suggestion. "I'm sure it's in the USMS guidelines somewhere – what to do when your deputy is abducted and held prisoner by a raging psychopath who wants a chess partner. First step, hospital; second step, United States Marshals Service approved shrink stop."
If he were feeling better about everything, Will would've laughed out loud at the look on Tim's face, another expression to add to the collection he was cataloguing. Will did manage a smile, an unbidden guest on his face which left soon after it arrived.
Art stopped talking when Tim looked past him to the door and frowned. The Chief turned to see what the distraction was.
"Special Agent Graham, I can't believe you're done writing up all the reports for this shooting." Art stood up and walked to the door and shook Will's hand. "Thank you for your hunches – they seem pretty alright to me since they got Tim, here, back in one piece, more or less." He leaned in for a comic whisper. "Between you and me, I'd like to get this sarcastic little shit permanently out of my hair, but this isn't quite the way I had in mind it happening – being skinned alive by some crazy." Art was attempting to get a laugh from Tim, looked back at him and sighed, his attempts clearly failing. "Well, it's been exciting, but do me a favor and keep your psychos to yourself next time. And especially, don't call asking to work with Tim again – it's not happening. I'll answer the FBI's request in advance. No."
He paused a beat, then, "Ask for Raylan, he'd even drive the crazies crazy."
Again a pause, another glance back in hope, a barely perceptively shrug in defeat.
"Well, I gotta go make a few phone calls," said Art. "Excuse me a minute."
Tim started talking as soon as the door closed, the words a little slower and deeper than usual, drugged-down. "I can't do this. I told you. Go on back to Virginia."
"I'm…going. Tomorrow morning. I came to see if you were alright."
"I'm fine, thanks."
Will nodded. "Come have coffee sometime – you, me and Hannibal."
Tim snorted, grinned finally. "Yeah, alright, as long as you put some bourbon in it."
Will turned to leave, turned back. "Tim…"
"I don't do this."
"I know. You don't do this. But if you fall on your head and have a massive change in personality… Tim, it doesn't get better than this."
Tim sat chewing on his lip, wouldn't take up the challenge. Will made the face one last time and left.
Will sat on the chair and laid his head in his hands supported by his elbows on his knees; Hannibal sat on the cot, hands folded in his lap, still, silent.
"You said…once," Will spoke like he used to speak in Hannibal's office all that time ago, "…you said that I needed to be alone."
Hannibal tilted his head slightly, waited.
Will sat up again, took a deep breath that cleared nothing. "I think maybe you're right."
"Be careful, Will, your self-pity is surfacing and it's not a good life raft to be clutching."
Will snorted, a wry grin. "I can always count on you…for bluntness."
"For friendship, too, I hope."
"You're kidding me, right?"
Hannibal smiled. "How did it feel killing a second time?"
Will grimaced, stood up and paced the front of the cell. "A lot better than shooting Garret Jacob Hobbs."
"And why is that?"
"You tell me. That's why I'm here."
"The need to protect loved ones is a primal instinct. I suspect it has little association with the rational parts of our thinking."
"Yeah. Did you imagine killing your sister's murderers when you hunted?"
Hannibal's smile was less easy. "We are discussing you, Will, not me."
"I'm sorry. I'm the patient, aren't I?"
"A friend, I thought?"
It was an uncomfortable idea being friends with a psychopath, but not outside the realm of possibility and Will couldn't dismiss it. There was something there. If he squinted hard he could make out an outline of what a relationship should be and could be and would be if the man weren't a convicted murderer. And with Tim as well there was a hint of what could be, what should be, what would be if Tim would only allow it. Maybe he was a draw to people he could never plumb the depths of, never reach the center of. Like Hannibal attracted psychopaths, maybe he attracted the impossible. This friendship certainly was impossible.
"Sure, a friend. Why not?"
A plastic smile. "Why not, indeed? I look forward to our visits."
Like he was addressing his subjects.
"Oh, I love this song," she said. "Have you heard it?"
She started singing along with the jukebox, I want a cowboy in a Cadillac. Tim wished he had Raylan's card to give her if she really wanted a cowboy – not that Raylan would thank him for the referral, she was a bit young – but a Town Car was close enough to a Cadillac and he had the hat and boots.
Her singalong voice faltered after the chorus and she continued with her life history.
"And anyway, I didn't want to follow him down to wherever Army Base whatever in nowhere-interesting, USA, so I told him he could keep his ring and I moved here to Lexington. I like the city. I'm a city girl at heart – I just knew it growing up. Everyone could tell I wasn't for sticking around that town. So now I'm working at the Arby's and I'm saving up to take a trip out west to California."
She took another sip of her drink, something orange, and listed slightly toward Tim, slipped off her stool and Tim caught her and pushed her back on her perch.
"You ever been to California?" she slurred in his ear as he replaced her at her spot at the bar.
Tim reached for his glass, finished his beer in one go and got up off his own stool and headed for the exit. He'd had enough. Sometimes shutting them out wasn't possible.
Rachel was standing at the door when he got to it. He was surprised to see her and almost smiled until he recognized the pose, the hands on her hips giving away her purpose. She looked like business. He felt immediately guilty for something, wondered what, asked her.
"What?" It came across churlish.
She pointed at a table and Tim limped over to it, compliant, sat down and leaned forward on his elbows, his back still sore and bandaged and healing.
"What are you doing here?" Rachel said, not aggressive, soft. "You just got out of the hospital this morning. I was expecting to find you at home. No, actually, more like I was hoping to find you at home."
"It hurts less leaning on a bar than slouching on my couch."
She huffed, ordered a beer and huffed again when Tim ordered a bourbon shot.
"Will called me to see how you were doing."
Tim slid his eyes to the door. "Yeah?"
"Jesus. I would never have pegged you as a coward."
"What'd you say?" She had Tim's attention now.
"You heard me." She stared him down.
His eyes dropped finally and he pouted and scratched carefully at the spot where the stitches in his leg rubbed against his jeans.
The girl from the bar appeared suddenly, standing hip out and glaring at Rachel. "Excuse me, but I was here first."
"Fuck off!" All of Tim's frustration came out in the two words and she stepped back under the force of it.
"Fuck you!" she said loudly, the indignant tone of surety.
Rachel kept an eye on her as she staggered back to the bar then arched an eyebrow. "Charming."
The waiter dropped off their drinks and Tim finished his before Rachel even had a sip. She watched him, waited.
"What?" he said again, churlish again.
"Coward."
"You don't understand shit."
"So tell me."
"No."
"Coward."
"You can fuck off, too." Tim stood abruptly, grimaced, limped out.
He got home before it was decent to go to bed, bypassed the computer and grabbed his bourbon and sat on the couch awhile trying to get comfortable, watched the news long enough to make himself more miserable then switched off and flopped into bed and finished the bottle. He was awake two hours later, sweating and chewing his lip and staring at the corner of the room and wishing he hadn't drunk all the bourbon. He had some horrors to toast.
Will heard the engine, looked up at the clock. It was late. There shouldn't be anyone coming to his house at this hour. He picked up his gun, a habit picked up from Tim, walked to the front door, hand on the knob, called out after the knock, "Who is it?"
"It's me."
Will opened the door before the sentence was finished. Tim was leaning on it, leaning his forehead on it, and stumbled in.
"Sorry."
Arms out to catch him, but Tim caught himself and backed up. "Was it even fucking locked? Jesus Christ, lock your fucking door!"
"I…" Will didn't bother finishing. "Are you drunk?"
"No, I'm not drunk!" Tim paced past him, angry, and got the dogs riled up. The barking started. Tim turned when he couldn't go any farther, headed back, nose to nose now, finger jabbing at the floor making a point. "Lock your fucking door!"
"I heard you the first time. What are you doing here?"
"I can't do this! I can't do this!"
The dogs kept at it. Will spoke softly through the racket.
"You drove all the way to tell me you can't do this? Do what, Tim?"
"This! Whatever it is you think this is. I can't do it! I can't! Do you hear? Do you know why? Do you know why?"
Will shook his head.
"What happens next, Will? What happens next?!"
Will shrugged, not understanding, and the dogs were still barking and Will still couldn't understand even when Tim answered his own question.
"You take a fucking bullet, that's what! You take a fucking bullet! For me! And then I have to live with it! I can't!" His voice was going hoarse yelling, yelling over the dogs. "I can't live with it! I can't! You fucking don't know! You fucking don't know anything!"
But Will knew, that instant, he knew. He could see it all, the furtive looks, the desperate and hidden meetings, quick, never enough, never quite getting it all out what needed to come out, what was desperate to come out, and then a black night, dark night, night vision, infrared, impersonal, not even a good last look, no chance for saying anything worth anything and even if the chance were there it wasn't going to happen, not there, never there, violence, a reaction, no thought, just sacrifice, no grieving, no touching, no place for it, not then, not later, never.
Don't ask; don't tell.
"I see." Will whispered it through the yelling. "I see, Tim. I see. It's okay. You don't have to do this. I understand. It's okay. You don't have to. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about…" But he didn't know his name. He didn't know anything.
He wanted to cry for him, but he didn't have to, the whispered words snuck through and Tim was sobbing, finally. Will took off his glasses, set them down, and ran both hands through the sweaty, unruly mess of Tim's hair, ran them over his face roughly, wiping at the salty wetness and the memories and the despair, took the keys from Tim's hand, the helmet, tossed them on the couch, pulled him in.
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