@warjournal
“It’s been a while. And I’ve never been a particularly good shot.” This pistol, one of Frank’s, is cold and heavy in his hand, and it feels different than his service weapon or his own Smith and Wesson--feels more significant, somehow, in a way that Will can’t entirely quantify.
It’s true, and he’s never been one for posturing or false modesty--he’s passable, but that’s about it. He thinks of Beverly’s strong hands adjusting his stance, of emptying his clip in Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ kitchen, of bad aim and not indecision saving Eldon Stammets’ life. It may as well have been lifetimes away, and that fear of his dormant impulses has long evaporated--still, he suspects his aim in this life leaves almost as much to be desired.
He tilts his head, looks at Frank sidelong for a weighted moment--and he’s more than a natural, all purpose and raw power--before returning his attention to the targets in front of them. His tone is casual, almost convincing as an attempt at idle conversation.
“Someone told me once that guns, uh, lack intimacy.”
