He isn't sure what Reid is asking about, but it doesn't really matter, does it? The park, his unit... they're all equally as fucked up. He can't talk about this in group, this isn't like things regular fucking veterans go through. This is a Frank Castle problem. So, he justifies, maybe it will help. He tries to ignore the burning suspicion that it's not others he's helping, but himself. He doesn't want to be selfish anymore, he doesn't even want to have regular human needs. Let alone whatever the fuck this is.

Frank sets his coffee cup down, which is a feat unto itself if you know the man. Like whiskey to an alcoholic they're rarely seen apart. He folds his arms at the elbows over the table and leans in, like it's a secret. He doesn't have the luxury of secrets. All of his life was blown out over every TV screen and newspaper headline for months. Now he's mostly in tabloids alongside Jimmy Hoffa and D.B Cooper. He's a legend. He never wanted to be that.

"Do you think they're gonna make a fucking documentary about me? Because that shit..." One corner of his lips twitches up and he shakes his head, leaning back like he wasn't just moving in on Spencer like prey. "Look. Why don't you just ask me what you wanna know about it, because I can't read your mind, doc." And if he starts talking on his own he'll probably never stop. That's the most dangerous thing about this right here.