"Not a problem whatsoever, Tim.  What do you need?"  William was woken up, as he is thrice nightly* five nights of seven.  He's got his stylus in hand.  He's ready for whatever happens.

*on average.

He pauses.  "I...I don't know.  I...look, can I just talk to you?"

Well, it's not the first time that someone's called me in crisis.  He pulls up one of his pre-saved selections of webpages.  "Of course.  Anytime, you know that."  As evidenced by the fact that it's eleven o'clock at night.

He sighs.  "I had a fight.  With C-Sinkhole."  He trudges his way to a nearby park bench.  Sits down.  Puts his head in his hands and combs his fingers through his sweaty hair.

Ahhh, shit.  Teenagers.  Can't tell 'em anything.  "Yeah?"  He wants to talk, he just needs a sympathetic ear.  Bill closes out the webpages he brought up and opens a different set.  This set includes Carol's dossier and schedule.

"She wants to do more dungeons.  And I get it, it's what an esper does, right?  We run dungeons.  But I promised Ma I'd take a half-load while I got my feet under me, with the rest of the time in the old movie theater, doing regen work.  And ever since, uh, that second time.  Where I passed out?  She's been moody, and distant, and she won't so much as kiss me.  And she doesn't - owe me anything, we're dating but that's not an all-access path to whatever hole I please.  But.  Look, you've gotta promise to keep this to yourself.  I mean it, it's not just my shit.  Okay?"

By now, Bill has poured himself a soda and splashed his face with cold water while on mute.  "I promise, Tim.  Look, you know I'm in your corner, son.  I'm your agent, and I would never gossip about this.  I don't talk to Paige about your shit that you need kept secret, I sure as hell don't talk to Hugh about it.  Private, we keep in the firm.  Secret, I keep it under my hat and I die with that info.  You can trust me."

And Tim's request for secrecy becomes a little bit foolish in retrospect because his voice rises as his sentences progress.  "Bill, I don't get it.  I'm not smart, you know?  But I'm not an idiot, either.  She tells me I need to cut back, okay, I cut back a little.  Then she tells me she wants to do more dungeons.  But she won't do any, you know, guiding!  The 'standard guiding strategy'!  And again, it's not like I'm owed anything, but she can't tell me she's not getting enough guiding while refusing to DO ANY GUIDING!"

He lashes out in frustration and anger.  An elbow to the back of the bench.  The back of the bench was four wooden planks screwed in place when Tim sat down.  Now it's two and two halves.

Will is halfway between shocked at the contents of the message and relieved that headphones won't go above a certain decibel level, by federal law.  "That's a real problem, Tim.  And I know you're not just thinking with your hormones.  You know better than that, son."  Why is part of my live giving relationship and sex counseling to a kid thirty years younger than me?

"Okay, look, if it was just that, I'm a fucking esper.  We're all hot and rich, right?"  Except for how I'm in debt, and I'm trying to pay it off by - later, Tim.  "Or, you know, my damn right hand?  I don't know what the fuck she wants from me, I can't talk to her when she walks in from a dungeon because - well, you know how she gets, you saw the email chain with  her agent.  I don't know what the fuck she wants from me and I can't give her what she wants, so why are we still - partners?!"

I had really hoped these two would make it.  It's not too late, though.  "Have you considered couples therapy?"

"Bill.  I don't think you understand.  She hardly fucking looks at me!  She barely talks to me!  She just - sits on me and snarls sometimes!  On a good day, she tells me about how her dungeon went!"

Okay, let him vent.  Maybe it'll help him clear his head so that he can - Bill's train of thought is interrupted.

"So she won't talk to me, she wants me to find a 'supplementary partner'* because she doesn't want to fucking touch me, I guess I have cooties?  I can't deal with this, Bill.  I."  He swallows a sob.  "I really liked her, but I can't be partnered with someone who doesn't want to be partnered with me."

*the sarcasm is tangible.

"Look, I get it.  I really do, son.  Tim.  You're still young, and everything is raw at that age.  Why don't you think it over, and in the morning -"

"It's been two weeks, Bill!  I can't - I can't deal with this!  I can't handle this - there's no answers!  I don't know where I stand, and I can't ask her!  I'm just fucking DONE, Bill!  I never want to talk to her again!  I don't want to see her again!  She can partner with anyfuckingbody, I'll pay the early breakup penalty!  I'll just - do less training, do more healing, pay it off, and she can do whatever the FUCK she wants!"  Tim is an ugly-crying, snotty, hiccuping mess on a broken park bench.

"Okay, I hear you.  But are you really sure abou - "

As though a switch were thrown, Tim just collapses forward, his head in his hands.  His voice is hollowed out.  "Please just do it, Bill."  He ends the call.  He spends the next hour alternating between quietly sniffing and staring into the middle distance.

Normally, to get a restraining order you need to have a justified cause.  Espers, though.  Espers enjoy a certain amount of leeway, and Bill has navigated these waters before.  He knows how to get things done.  And at the end of the day, Moore, Lotte, and Lowed are here to take instructions from their clients and get paid for it.

"I need you to sign for this letter, ma'am."

"Uh, okay?  Here you go?"  Carol signs the e-reader and takes the letter, bemused.  It's from...why is a court sending her a letter?

She tears it open.

Dear Carol McCleery,

I am writing to inform you of a legal directive filed against you.  A restraining order has been sought...

Tim..?

Puppy?