Jack doesn't give him much. That's the thing about him that would make him easy to work with if the actual work wasn't so horrific. Jack is steady, he's controlled, he's got his emotions under lock and key the majority of the time -- except for when that anger coils up and then strikes out like a python. Anger that pushes at Will and urges him to yell back sometimes.

For now, though, he's simply trying to determine whether or not he's supposed to be here. Jack is casual enough in his greeting, but there's a hint of surprise. He tends to ask after him, to assuage his own guilt, but he wouldn't be doing that if Will had already been here for some time. Which means... maybe they aren't supposed to be here at all. The lettering on their wrists indicates otherwise, but it's all foreign to him.

They don't belong here.

"Not that I know of," he says while scratching at his cheek. "What's this all about?" he asks, gaze flitting down to his wrist. There's no crime scene tape, no FBI to be seen whatsoever save for the two of them, and Will only half-counts. There's no murder here, but there's something else. An army?

He avoids answering Jack's question, not sure he could give a convincing answer right at this moment.