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James. [ Will began, looking at the Sig in his hand. ] I'd probably miss entirely.

[ Wait, not quite what he wanted to say. Looking up from the gun, he exhaled a long breath. ]

There are a lot of things I'm good at, and honestly in my job ... if I do my job right, guns shouldn't ever been necessary. I do the work to ensure that the people breaking down the doors have a thorough understanding of the monster they're facing. I don't ... break down the doors.

Guns are always necessary, it always ends in a fight.

[He sounds more weary and sad than he does argumentative.]

Take a look at your scars, at mine, and tell me that's not the case.

[ Will really isn't trying to bring this to the point of being an argument. He has no desire to argue with James and is a little curious about the man's almost ... resignation to the fact that guns are a necessity.

At the challenge to look at his scars, Will actually did glance down at himself. He poked at his stomach, then looked at his hand, reached over the back of his right shoulder and then prodded at the front, eventually touching his cheek. Eventually he looked back at James. ]

Out of nine permanent scars, only one is the result of a gunshot. The other eight are from knives, a scalpel and a circular saw.

[ He paused, giving it some thought and then added. ] For the record, the gunshot was the only instance where the perpetrator wasn't trying to kill me.

That's not the point.

[He can't tell if Will is being deliberately obtuse, or if he genuinely just didn't understand that his use of the word guns was wider meaning than just that specific weapon.]

Guns, knives, saws-- whatever. It's a weapon, it's gonna be needed, words don't solve everything. You can't rely on that to always get you through.

And I'm saying that if we ever get in a situation where everybody is relying on my marksmanship to get us out of it; kiss your ass goodbye!

[ The last was said in a sharp tone, though the frustration was aimed more at himself than James.

He was a man pushing forty, had been in law enforcement (in some capacity) his entire working career and his marksmanship would put an adolescent to shame.

Will reached up and rubbed at his forehead. He was starting to develop a headache. ]

Alright. I'm sorry. This is just ... I don't want this to be a waste of your time, or mine. [ As he spoke, he looked down at the Sig, as if it were blowing him a raspberry. ]

[It's a surprise to hear Will snap, he's been so composed since Bucky met him even when he was being stabbed through the hand. But it's almost good, a reminder that he's human too and gives into his irritations just like anyone else.]

It's not a waste of my time, or yours.

[Not that he has anything else going on with his time anyway.]

You have potential, you're not hopeless. I can help you shoot straight, even if you don't become a world-class marksman.

[ For a moment Will fell silent, still looking down at the Sig. He flexed his fingers around the grip and then nodded. ]

Alright. [ He agreed, finally looking up. ] But could we just keep working on stationary targets for a bit? At least until I can stop flinching on the recoil?

Sure.

[He's willing to compromise.]

What is it that makes you flinch? The noise, or the knowledge you've just fired a gun?

[ Will gave it some thought, eyes down on the gun as he considered the question.

He was having to think back to his past self. The part of him that felt so distanced from his current reality. Pre-Hannibal and post-Hannibal. ]

Both. [ He answered. ] At least, the last time I shot a gun in earnest it was both. I don't know if it would be the same now.

[ Giving his head a shake, he looked up at Bucky and his lips twitched. ]

I think now that I find it, somewhat ... inelegant.

It's a gun, it's not supposed to be elegant, it's only purpose is to kill people. There's no stealth to it, no finesse, it's just death.

[He would never use a gun if he needed to stealth kill a target, there's no way of covering up what it was.]

If you want elegant, you need a weapon with more versatility.

[Like him.]

Death can be elegant. [ The words slipped out of his mouth before Will could stop them, but he managed to swallow the remainder of that thought.

He glanced up at Bucky, blinking curiously towards the man. It was possible that he was following one of those odd, intuitive paths of his, the ones James hated but that Will couldn't entirely shut off.

At least, when he spoke, his question was genuine curiosity and not a statement. The curiosity possibly offering a little insight into Will's own psyche; as a peace offering. ]

What would you consider a weapon with more versatility?

[His eyes narrowed, but he at least offered an honest answer, Will has earned that much from him.]

Me.

[He's a weapon with the most versatility there is. It's not something he's proud of, but he can't run from that fact.]

[ It was impossible for Will not to build an empathy map out of that one word, when taken in context of the conversation. There was so much he wanted to say in response.

But he'd promised James that even if he couldn't not construct the psychic profile, he'd at least keep it to himself.

In respect to that promise, Will looked down at the gun in his hand and dropped the slide to investigate the bullets still housed within, as he responded. ]

I don't make weapons out of my friends.

You look like you're gonna choke not saying more.

[It's an observation made with the driest of tones. He's sort of resigned himself to Will knowing more than he'd like about him now.]

[ Will half turned and gave James a wry look overtop the rim of his glasses. ]

I promised to keep my observations to myself. I never promised that I'd have a good poker face about it.

Yeah, I know. I just don't know if it's worse knowing that you know something, but not what it is.

[He's a contradiction in terms. It bothers him greatly when people know his past, but the uncertainty of not knowing how much they know is almost worse.]

[ Tapping the two parts of the handgun together, Will gave it a moment's thought before he deliberately placed the slide into one pocket and tucked the now empty weapon into his waistband. If he ended up getting thrown off this roof, he didn't want to accidentally shoot himself on top of it.

Turning to face Bucky, his hands found his pockets as he let his eyes close. The images flashed into brilliant technicolor without any effort on his part. In fact, it was harder to keep them at bay. ]

You've always wanted to protect people. It defined you growing up, you were a defender, a character trait probably enhanced either through defending a younger sibling, a friend or a girlfriend; someone who needed your physicality.

But you also have a taste for excitement, adrenaline junkie.

A person like you, a protector who wants to be on the front lines, usually goes into public service. Fireman, police, first responder, military. You're military, which is ... risky. You believe so deeply, you put your faith in the orders you're given but the people issuing those orders don't always deserve your loyalty.

The abuse of men like you in the military is ... rampant, but because you are a protector you turn the disillusion inwards onto yourself.

[ Will paused and his eyes opened, and while he was looking directly at James, it was obvious that his gaze was inwards. ]

There's an additional component with you. [ His eyes flicked to the arm and then back. ] An experiment, soldiers are often the first human lab rats utilized by a government. [ His eyes narrowed and relaxed. ] But this wasn't your choice.

It wasn't your choice, which means their modifications had to be mental, emotional as well as physical.

The human brain is an amazing organ, James. The things it can do to preserve itself, a survival instinct above and beyond even our own bodies.

Disassociation.

That combined with the dehumanization, and your innate need to protect those around you. You hold to the definition of 'weapon' because you're not prepared to forgive yourself for what you've done as a result of the abuse and manipulation that's been done to you. And because you're not ready, you won't allow yourself to accept the idea of your own personhood from any outside source. No matter how close the friendship.

[ He wasn't suggesting that he and James had any such closeness, but Will suspected James did have close friends in the city.

For now, he blinked and gave himself a small shake, blinking around as if re-orienting himself, glancing off to the side and then down to his toes. ]

Like I said; I don't make weapons out of my friends, even if that's how they see themselves.

[Bucky listens to the whole thing without once moving or trying to interrupt, his face a blank mask and his eyes intense on Will's face. It's uncomfortable, like being under an x-ray machine, but it's... not as bad as he thought. Almost like when Clark knew, there doesn't seem to be any judgement there.]

Some things are right.

[Some of the broad strokes, and some of them are not so right. He hesitates a long... long moment, clearly weighing up whether to actually tell him or not. Not everything, never the details, but his own broad strokes.]

You ever hear of the Nazis?

[Feels weird to have to ask that, but there's some worlds where they just don't exist yet, or even where they never will.]

[ Will hadn't been sure what to expect. Anything from James walking away and leaving him to get home on his own, to ... quite literally getting tossed off the damn roof.

He hadn't entirely anticipated a question. As such, Will kept his response on point; giving James the opportunity to talk. ]

Yes. They are a part of my Earth's history.

[He nods, that makes it a bit easier. It means he doesn't have to explain who they were, at least, or what the war was.]

I was born in 1917, I fought in that war. Drafted, not volunteered, I was never an adrenaline junkie. I was a prisoner of war, twice, the second time I didn't get rescued. Experiments by the deep science division, HYDRA, brainwashing. I forgot my own name, I forgot everything. I wasn't human, I was their asset, their Soldier. I was kept in storage, cryogenic freeze, and brought out when they needed me. I killed on their command for seventy years.

If I think that I'm a weapon, it's because I am.

[He shrugs slightly, voice still carefully void of any emotion.]

I might not be the Soldier any more, but I still don't have back what I lost. I don't remember most of my life, but I remember every single person I killed.

[ He listened quietly, the way James speed skipped over some points; Will had a similar habit and so he recognized it.

The last comment, he looked up and his expression was carefully neutral. ]

Of course you do. [ He said softly, without judgement but also without pity. ] That's how the human brain works, James. Your parents may tell you a dozen times not to touch the hot stove but you won't remember a single instances of being kindly told; you remember how it felt when you touched it.

It's the way the brain works. Again, its survival, remembering the horror in an effort to avoid it the next time. But you weren't given that choice. You kept being thrown into the horror, again and again and again, until it's all you know.

But it doesn't have to continue to be that way. [ He said softly. ] You look in the mirror and you see the weapon, understandable. But tell me James who do you see when you look in the eyes of your friends?

[ He held up a hand quickly. ]

It's not a question to be answered right now. But the next time ... try to look at who they see.

[He doesn't understand.

It's to be expected, he's probably from a world where brainwashing really does just mean repeated exposure to trauma and the brain working to survive by suppressing in an effort to avoid things. It wasn't that way, they literally went into his brain and pulled things out with electricity, rewiring him.

He doesn't bother to explain.]

That's the thing, he sees a dead man.

[He, not they, a slip he doesn't realise he's made.]

[ No, no he probably doesn't. But then there is no way James could understand the mental manipulation Will had undergone either.

They were unique experiences to both of them.

Will notes the verbage. There is an obvious opening there but the profiler doesn't pursue that door. Instead, he goes around to the side porch. ]

Who is the dead man?

[ Its in his tone. He understands that James is talking about himself, he's not asking literally or for a name. He's curious to see what parts of himself James sees as dead. ]

[He's said enough that it doesn't bother him too much to say more, this area isn't one of the ones that will have him leaving at once. There are areas too painful to touch on, even for him, but this isn't it.]

The man I was before the war. He used to smile, and step out with gals, and dance.

[Even Will can't say there's anything left of that man in him.]

[ For a long moment, Will turned James' words over and over in his head. There was a lot there to poke at but Will had a feeling that it might be time to back off a hair.

That and provide a small offering of his own. One that wasn't entirely laden with landmines. ]

I have a measurement like that. Before and after an event in my life, where I was irrevocably transformed.

[ Will glanced out across the horizon, watching the play of clouds in the sky. ]

I wish I had an answer for you, James. All I can offer is the understanding that I know you can't go back.

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