Will knew cigarettes. He knew all kinds of remedies and how they came: herbs, thickly tamped into paper and smoked, or burned over open flame. He knew other people chased death in small harmless ways that added up over time, grains of sand sliding through an hourglass toward what looked like emptiness. He supposed he could smoke, if he felt like it. It wasn't as if he particularly objected to death. He wasn't dead, even if half the cadre they'd been once had been. Just inclined that way. Eventually.
He slid into the bar, narrow angular shoulders in a worn-in leather jacket that had softened with age and abuse. His pupils were black-dark and over-large but steady and his hands were steady too. It had taken half an hour out in the depths of the woods and his head was still full of smoke and fumes and honey as the lingering taste of magic was metal on his tongue but he thought (hoped, really) that it was a line he could walk with relative ease at least for the evening.
It wasn't every day you came face to face with the man you'd murdered when possessed, after all.
Will hadn't changed much from adolescence to adulthood. His face was narrow and long and his hair was mussed with damp and smelled of wood-smoke. He ordered nothing, hands in his pockets and he saw Atticus partly because Atticus hadn't changed a great deal either and partly because the bar was small enough it was hard not to see everyone.
"I'm trying to think of a cliche that really serves," Will remarked. His voice was light without being thin. "But struggling to find something suitable. Hello, Atticus." His smile was slight, nervous.