Frank gets home at 18:03 and makes sure his shit is more-or-less in order. He puts on a pot of coffee and eats an MRE while he waits for the doctor to arrive. When he does, he'll still be in his work clothes, a simple henley and dark wash jeans all but destroyed with the same concrete dust that's somehow all through his hair too, a bit on his face.
The one room apartment is efficient and nothing more, save for scant touches that a person lives here. There's an old TV with bunny rabbit ears as well as a short couch with an equally short and dumpy coffee table. Propped up against the far wall is a plain mattress and hidden behind it is an ancient laptop. The only thing hung on the walls is a Taylor guitar, easily worth more than the sum of the room's contents otherwise and a whole year's rent for this shithole. Through a low-hanging open doorway is a tiny kitchen, the only section of the apartment that looks truly lived in. There's a tall pantry cabinet that looks ordinary but houses a ham radio and a bright bouquet of peonies sits on the singular strip of counter space. There's a tiny table and two tiny mismatched chairs somehow jammed into the postage stamp of a room as well.
Frank seems in good enough spirits when he answers the door, ushering Spencer inside with only the shadow of a smile and a nod for a greeting.
Reid is prompt, because of course he is. He's trained extensively in de-escalation, negotiation, empathy-- things that are overkill in the average conversation, but that he employs instinctively when dealing with someone dangerous, no matter how well-contained. He doesn't truly judge himself to be in any danger or he'd never have come (he's not as reckless as his teammates say he is, honestly), but he's been on the job long enough now that it's just instinct. It helps that it's motivated primarily by compassion, and not fear.
For someone as tall, lanky, and, well, reedy as he is, he's remarkably unafraid. That doesn't mean he isn't nervous. It's just a more normal sort of social nerves. Reid has a loose cardigan on over a patterned button-up and a thin tie, and except for the pistol in a front holster, he could be ten years younger than he really is and wandering around some campus. Spencer gives a characteristic wave when Frank opens the door, smiling back with less reservation.
He really is excited. He has an old-school yellow flip-top notepad in his messenger bag, ready for notes.
"Hi. Thank you for having me-- and agreeing to this-- again." He reminds himself not to just lurch into twenty questions the second the door opens, which is really progress, for Spencer. "You really didn't have to."
That's high on his list of questions: why had he? The human urge to unburden himself, to share? Spencer would believe it of anyone.
He isn't surprised by any of the above really, though the profuse thank-yous get under his skin. He doesn't want to have to think about why he agreed to this. All he knows is, Daredevil would approve. What a prick.
"Yeah," he says, dismissively, turning his back on Reid to go get himself some coffee as it starts to brew. He's going to need it if this initial meeting is any sort of indication. "You take cream or sugar?"
Okay, okay, he'll tone himself down. He's trying to be polite, but suppressing his solving-a-puzzle piqued curiosity is a real challenge for Reid.
"Both if you have it, please." He steps into the tiny apartment, letting the door close behind him. His hands rest comfortably on his messenger bag strap out of rote habit. "Um, out of a sense of fairness, you're welcome to ask me anything you like, too." Maybe that will help him get more comfortable. Step one: give him control of the conversation?
Frank is easily overwhelmed by any and all eagerness, but religiously attending Curtis' veteran's group helps, as much as he hates to admit it. He's getting better at sharing though the truth of his lone-wolf personality is such that if one presses him enough about any one thing and the rest falls out anyway.
"I'll see what I can dig up." Since to the surprise of no one, Frank Castle likes his coffee black and bitter and in a big mug. After some digging, he finds some milk he sniffs for freshness and a packet of brown sugar to fix Spencer his own cup. He drinks out of a cup that declares Go Indiana Hoosiers! though he has no idea what that means. The mug he hands Reid has a Canadian flag on it, which seems equally as unlikely. "What made you want to dissect freaks like me?" There's a tiny, private smile that he hides, cocking his hip against the counter as he takes his first sip, much too hot though he doesn't even flinch.
Brown sugar? Well, okay. Reid has a sweet tooth but after years in the FBI and in college, he can drink coffee any way he can get it. He detangles his hands from his bag to accept the coffee, both palms curled around it.
"First of all, it's not freakish," he says immediately, barely needing any prompting. Reid is easy to set off on a topic, taking direction equitably and unrushed for now, yet to warm up. "It's a completely expected part of human nature to respond to trauma by developing coping mechanisms, even if they're maladaptive. And I prefer not to 'dissect' anyone." He actually lifts one hand to make air quotes, briefly, since that isn't a literal use of dissect.
"To answer your question," Reid goes on, making a fast decision on how much truth to reveal, which leans toward quite a bit but not everything, "I've always wanted to help, and I know what it's like to be the person no one else can understand." He shrugs one shoulder. "If I can save victims and do that at the same time... It seemed worth it."
Maladaptive. Yeah, Spencer can say that again. Frank says nothing for a long time, looking down into his coffee as he processes the other man's answer. Which was predictably thorough for such a bullshit question to begin with.
"I'm not like this because of trauma." He's always been like this. It's how he ended up in the military and how that military ended up betraying him. And then he had had to hunt down every single responsible party because that's who he is. Not who he became, but who he always was. Reid should know that off the bat, even if it isn't necessarily easy to admit.
Reid takes this without batting an eyelash. He's a good listener, attentive, and he doesn't discredit what he's told-- but he isn't bothered by it, either.
"There's extensive theoretical debates about that very question," he answers. "You can think of it as the classic nature versus nurture argument, although it's more refined and nuanced within the realm of violent crime psychology. Our best guess right now is that the end result is due to both. Maybe someone has a predisposition, but--" Spencer slows, for once, tone growing quieter. "We always look for catalysts. People don't do things for no reason. Under the right conditions, I've also killed people."
He isn't really paying attention until Spencer admits to killing. His eyes flash on the younger man's and he wonders if they shouldn't be sitting for such a heavy topic. Deciding to take the initiative, he moves to the rickety little table and sits in the freshly painted black chair by the only window in the whole place, leaving Reid the mismatched chair opposite him in peeling blue paint. He takes a shallow sip as he tries to parse through it all and come up with something to say.
"I don't regret any of what I did. Do you?" Most police officers never even discharge their weapons. He knows a lot of agents who haven't either. Suddenlt he thinks that Spencer Reid would be in good company with Special Agent Dinah Madani. He wonders idly if they know each other.
Reid's whole life is overly serious conversations. He finds room for friends, his mom, stupid TV shows and enjoying books, here and there. But by and large he is at home with topics most people rarely touch upon, including judging the necessity of taking a life. Avoiding the idea isn't really possible, for him.
He sits, drinks some more coffee before answering. "I don't know," he says honestly. This isn't his first year on the job, and with experience he's gained... not clarity, but acceptance. "I'm not saying it doesn't keep me up at night, sometimes. But I know I'd rather live with it than live with failing to save someone I could've saved... Or dying myself," Spencer admits. "So that's the choice I made."
Frank's nod is respectful, he understands that perspective. For certain instances, he can even relate. But it isn't his kills that ever kept him up. It was the people left alive to fuck shit up for him. Which he supposes Reid also touched on. "Good choice." Better than dying at some scumbag's hand. He seems like a good kid, someone who really cares about other people. Frank's never fully been formed that way though, even if he can recognize it easily in others.
"I didn't want to live through it. No one does, right? They all off themselves at the end." He shrugs a shoulder like it's nothing. But it's not nothing, not even to him. At the end, he had a change of heart. Frank Castle wanted to live. And maybe now, he wants to change.
He doesn't take his approval too much to heart-- Spencer's used to distancing himself-- but he appreciates it nonetheless. Before he can answer, though, Frank says that like it's something to be expected, and a frown manifests on his face, denial and concern.
"Not all of them." He has to think quickly, decide where to go with this. He sounds tentative. "And you did. You did live through it. So-- where are you going from here?"
He tips his head to concede the point. The doctor here has obviously done far more research and he's not about to pretend otherwise. He really had wanted to die though, before. Avenge his family and duck out before he had to live with the consequences. Now that he seems to have neatly skipped over the consequence part, though, the rest is just... dead space he has to fill.
"Fuck if I know. End up doing things just to pass the time." But that's not really living, is it?
It's characteristic for long-term violent offenders to be lacking in overarching goals and direction in life, so Spencer isn't surprised by this issue, although he's learned better than to just openly describe him as 'an offender'. Still, someone who commits crimes of such a severe nature either doesn't think they'll be caught, or doesn't care about the consequences-- because they don't see themselves as having a future.
"If you still feel strongly about-- what you were doing," he temporizes, "there's no reason you couldn't consult. Legally."
If he still feels strongly? About murdering everyone who had anything to do with his family's slaughter? Well, except one. Death is too sweet a release for some.
"Consult," he repeats, like it's a word he's never heard before. What... "What are you talking about?"
The look Reid gets is... weary. But he hasn't misstepped. Frank likes the idea of being useful to people like him, and Agent Madani. He just isn't cut out for it.
"Not a good idea," he says simply, getting up to refill his cup.
Oh, good. So he hasn't offended. Reid doesn't want to wear out his welcome, but moreover, he just doesn't get any satisfaction out of upsetting people.
"What are your objections?" he asks quickly, like he really wants to know them, not like he's gearing up to shoot them down one by one. Reid operates at such a fast pace mentally that sometimes his words try to keep up.
"Other than the fact that I'm not supposed to exist?" It's just a deflection, meant to change the subject. He doesn't think Reid will be so easily swayed though. Homeland Security could easily get around all that and Frank knows they'd jump at the opportunity to own him. He can't afford to be someone's secret weapon again, he'd trusted the government with everything and they'd taken that same everything away.
With coffee #2 already in his hand, Frank reluctantly sits back down. He had agreed to this, he should cooperate. It's just... never been his strong suit. "I'm not cut out to be the neat little vigilante everyone wants, like Daredevil. I can't punch bullies and send them off in handcuffs." He punctuates with a noisy sip. "I put bad guys down. Plain and simple. They put me in the field, none of 'em get back up. Which means you don't get your little case study."
He waits until the real reason is outed, drinking his coffee, but is immediately shaking his head. Reid has no experience being treated as a weapon, and hasn't quite equated his actual experiences of being treated as a computer to it, so he hasn't realized that side of things. But taking things as said...
"I think you have a misconception of the role of CIs, also known as criminal informants. You might have to, um, tone it down a little, but there's no expectation that your hands would be totally clean. I suspect the more prohibitive aspect is that you would have to answer to someone?" His voice tilts up in a question. Spencer anticipates being a little more law-abiding to be less problematic than having to cooperate with a broader organization, for someone used to being a solo, no-holds-barred, no-rules vigilante.
Wow, Spencer, you're really not listening. That's okay, but Frank is narrowing his eyes like this is not what he invited you here for. Because it isn't.
"The last time I answered to someone, my whole family got blown up in front of my face." Is that what he wants to hear? Frank takes a sip of coffee like he made a strong statement about the weather and nothing more.
He's working through it in his head, okay. Spencer sometimes thinks out loud. But he stops that when he sees this reaction, because the next step in his head is a natural, Well, you seem not to mind me too much, excluding the present moment, so why don't I be your contact?
Is he really ready to get into that? Probably he should know what he's signing up for, first. So he meekly takes this rebuttal and allows Frank to re-steer the conversation back on-topic.
"Do you want to... um. Is that something you want to talk about?" Or ignore forever? Spencer thinks it could go either way. He's undoubtedly concealing a lot of emotion beneath that casual coffee sip, but whether he wants to let it out or not is another question.
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.
He does feel a little jolt of nerves when Frank decisively sets his coffee down and leans in, but it's mostly a conditioned response. Reid is very aware of himself as prey in general, not necessarily for Frank Castle but for the multitude of bullies and violent offenders out there in the world. There's a reason he stays behind a desk as much as possible.
His nerves settle the second they get back to his comfort zone: talking. "I have no idea if they'll make a documentary," he says honestly. "A book is probably more likely. But I promise that nothing you tell me will be part of it. Studying something is different from generic public interest." Which he evidently has some distaste for. Reid is not a fan of glorifying crimes, or mental illness, and the two are often intricately linked.
"As for me asking-- that is, I can, if you're sure." Reid looks more tentative, sliding one finger around the rim of his mug over and over. "... We could just start from the beginning." Frank refusing to answer whether he wants to talk about it makes it seem like he does, in fact, want to talk about it, at least to Spencer.
A book. That's better. He knows Reid wouldn't be a part of that, which is another layer to why he's trusting him now, but it still helps to hear the words. This can be safe, the same way group at the VA is. He can spill out his heart right here on this table, and no one has to know.
He's just never been very good at it. The sharing, the trusting. Talking about himself is like an exercise in torture and he only does it once a week, and only in theory really since he has to change the details in order to keep his anonymity. Frank swallows, leaning further back in his chair and crossing his arms across his chest. His body language keeps changing up, from open to completely closed off, like he can't decide whether to go on the offense or defense here. Like he can't fully decide which side of the table he wants to be on.
His eyes focus on Reid's hand, the repetitive motion. People in his line of work were predicated to that sort of behavior, he thinks. He's not the analyst here, but it reminds him of Micro all the same. Nervous and too damn smart for his own good. "The beginning," he repeats, and it gets a gritty smile. He's not even sure what the beginning is, anymore. "You want to hear about my childhood, doc? That I was never good at making friends, fitting in. Always rearing for a fight. Because you'd be right. I like to fulfill a stereotype every now and then just like the next asshole."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for dr. reid
The one room apartment is efficient and nothing more, save for scant touches that a person lives here. There's an old TV with bunny rabbit ears as well as a short couch with an equally short and dumpy coffee table. Propped up against the far wall is a plain mattress and hidden behind it is an ancient laptop. The only thing hung on the walls is a Taylor guitar, easily worth more than the sum of the room's contents otherwise and a whole year's rent for this shithole. Through a low-hanging open doorway is a tiny kitchen, the only section of the apartment that looks truly lived in. There's a tall pantry cabinet that looks ordinary but houses a ham radio and a bright bouquet of peonies sits on the singular strip of counter space. There's a tiny table and two tiny mismatched chairs somehow jammed into the postage stamp of a room as well.
Frank seems in good enough spirits when he answers the door, ushering Spencer inside with only the shadow of a smile and a nod for a greeting.
no subject
For someone as tall, lanky, and, well, reedy as he is, he's remarkably unafraid. That doesn't mean he isn't nervous. It's just a more normal sort of social nerves. Reid has a loose cardigan on over a patterned button-up and a thin tie, and except for the pistol in a front holster, he could be ten years younger than he really is and wandering around some campus. Spencer gives a characteristic wave when Frank opens the door, smiling back with less reservation.
He really is excited. He has an old-school yellow flip-top notepad in his messenger bag, ready for notes.
"Hi. Thank you for having me-- and agreeing to this-- again." He reminds himself not to just lurch into twenty questions the second the door opens, which is really progress, for Spencer. "You really didn't have to."
That's high on his list of questions: why had he? The human urge to unburden himself, to share? Spencer would believe it of anyone.
no subject
"Yeah," he says, dismissively, turning his back on Reid to go get himself some coffee as it starts to brew. He's going to need it if this initial meeting is any sort of indication. "You take cream or sugar?"
no subject
"Both if you have it, please." He steps into the tiny apartment, letting the door close behind him. His hands rest comfortably on his messenger bag strap out of rote habit. "Um, out of a sense of fairness, you're welcome to ask me anything you like, too." Maybe that will help him get more comfortable. Step one: give him control of the conversation?
no subject
"I'll see what I can dig up." Since to the surprise of no one, Frank Castle likes his coffee black and bitter and in a big mug. After some digging, he finds some milk he sniffs for freshness and a packet of brown sugar to fix Spencer his own cup. He drinks out of a cup that declares Go Indiana Hoosiers! though he has no idea what that means. The mug he hands Reid has a Canadian flag on it, which seems equally as unlikely. "What made you want to dissect freaks like me?" There's a tiny, private smile that he hides, cocking his hip against the counter as he takes his first sip, much too hot though he doesn't even flinch.
no subject
"First of all, it's not freakish," he says immediately, barely needing any prompting. Reid is easy to set off on a topic, taking direction equitably and unrushed for now, yet to warm up. "It's a completely expected part of human nature to respond to trauma by developing coping mechanisms, even if they're maladaptive. And I prefer not to 'dissect' anyone." He actually lifts one hand to make air quotes, briefly, since that isn't a literal use of dissect.
"To answer your question," Reid goes on, making a fast decision on how much truth to reveal, which leans toward quite a bit but not everything, "I've always wanted to help, and I know what it's like to be the person no one else can understand." He shrugs one shoulder. "If I can save victims and do that at the same time... It seemed worth it."
He finally actually takes a sip of his coffee.
no subject
"I'm not like this because of trauma." He's always been like this. It's how he ended up in the military and how that military ended up betraying him. And then he had had to hunt down every single responsible party because that's who he is. Not who he became, but who he always was. Reid should know that off the bat, even if it isn't necessarily easy to admit.
no subject
"There's extensive theoretical debates about that very question," he answers. "You can think of it as the classic nature versus nurture argument, although it's more refined and nuanced within the realm of violent crime psychology. Our best guess right now is that the end result is due to both. Maybe someone has a predisposition, but--" Spencer slows, for once, tone growing quieter. "We always look for catalysts. People don't do things for no reason. Under the right conditions, I've also killed people."
no subject
"I don't regret any of what I did. Do you?" Most police officers never even discharge their weapons. He knows a lot of agents who haven't either. Suddenlt he thinks that Spencer Reid would be in good company with Special Agent Dinah Madani. He wonders idly if they know each other.
no subject
He sits, drinks some more coffee before answering. "I don't know," he says honestly. This isn't his first year on the job, and with experience he's gained... not clarity, but acceptance. "I'm not saying it doesn't keep me up at night, sometimes. But I know I'd rather live with it than live with failing to save someone I could've saved... Or dying myself," Spencer admits. "So that's the choice I made."
no subject
"I didn't want to live through it. No one does, right? They all off themselves at the end." He shrugs a shoulder like it's nothing. But it's not nothing, not even to him. At the end, he had a change of heart. Frank Castle wanted to live. And maybe now, he wants to change.
no subject
"Not all of them." He has to think quickly, decide where to go with this. He sounds tentative. "And you did. You did live through it. So-- where are you going from here?"
no subject
"Fuck if I know. End up doing things just to pass the time." But that's not really living, is it?
sorry, vacation happened!
"If you still feel strongly about-- what you were doing," he temporizes, "there's no reason you couldn't consult. Legally."
i hope you had fun c:
"Consult," he repeats, like it's a word he's never heard before. What... "What are you talking about?"
I DID it was tres relaxing
"Being a confidential informant?"
yessss excellent
"Not a good idea," he says simply, getting up to refill his cup.
no subject
"What are your objections?" he asks quickly, like he really wants to know them, not like he's gearing up to shoot them down one by one. Reid operates at such a fast pace mentally that sometimes his words try to keep up.
no subject
With coffee #2 already in his hand, Frank reluctantly sits back down. He had agreed to this, he should cooperate. It's just... never been his strong suit. "I'm not cut out to be the neat little vigilante everyone wants, like Daredevil. I can't punch bullies and send them off in handcuffs." He punctuates with a noisy sip. "I put bad guys down. Plain and simple. They put me in the field, none of 'em get back up. Which means you don't get your little case study."
no subject
"I think you have a misconception of the role of CIs, also known as criminal informants. You might have to, um, tone it down a little, but there's no expectation that your hands would be totally clean. I suspect the more prohibitive aspect is that you would have to answer to someone?" His voice tilts up in a question. Spencer anticipates being a little more law-abiding to be less problematic than having to cooperate with a broader organization, for someone used to being a solo, no-holds-barred, no-rules vigilante.
no subject
"The last time I answered to someone, my whole family got blown up in front of my face." Is that what he wants to hear? Frank takes a sip of coffee like he made a strong statement about the weather and nothing more.
no subject
Is he really ready to get into that? Probably he should know what he's signing up for, first. So he meekly takes this rebuttal and allows Frank to re-steer the conversation back on-topic.
"Do you want to... um. Is that something you want to talk about?" Or ignore forever? Spencer thinks it could go either way. He's undoubtedly concealing a lot of emotion beneath that casual coffee sip, but whether he wants to let it out or not is another question.
no subject
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.
no subject
His nerves settle the second they get back to his comfort zone: talking. "I have no idea if they'll make a documentary," he says honestly. "A book is probably more likely. But I promise that nothing you tell me will be part of it. Studying something is different from generic public interest." Which he evidently has some distaste for. Reid is not a fan of glorifying crimes, or mental illness, and the two are often intricately linked.
"As for me asking-- that is, I can, if you're sure." Reid looks more tentative, sliding one finger around the rim of his mug over and over. "... We could just start from the beginning." Frank refusing to answer whether he wants to talk about it makes it seem like he does, in fact, want to talk about it, at least to Spencer.
no subject
He's just never been very good at it. The sharing, the trusting. Talking about himself is like an exercise in torture and he only does it once a week, and only in theory really since he has to change the details in order to keep his anonymity. Frank swallows, leaning further back in his chair and crossing his arms across his chest. His body language keeps changing up, from open to completely closed off, like he can't decide whether to go on the offense or defense here. Like he can't fully decide which side of the table he wants to be on.
His eyes focus on Reid's hand, the repetitive motion. People in his line of work were predicated to that sort of behavior, he thinks. He's not the analyst here, but it reminds him of Micro all the same. Nervous and too damn smart for his own good. "The beginning," he repeats, and it gets a gritty smile. He's not even sure what the beginning is, anymore. "You want to hear about my childhood, doc? That I was never good at making friends, fitting in. Always rearing for a fight. Because you'd be right. I like to fulfill a stereotype every now and then just like the next asshole."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)