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."
Reid has spent his time in Narcotics Anonymous-- is still going-- and it's similarly painful and difficult for him to wrench these truths out of himself, to talk about the things he keeps deepest buried. He's always had that propensity, for keeping pain to himself, had been taught it in a childhood where he was the caretaker and had no one to depend on. Half the reason he became such a teacher's pet was for the assurance and attention.
He gets it. He still fidgets, because he's not great at being totally still, but Reid listens closely, attentive without being pressuring. "Sounds like me without the fighting back," he shoots back without a hint of embarrassment. "You're not the only walking stereotype. If you think your childhood is the beginning, we can start there. If you think it's somewhere else--" Spencer shrugs. "I'm here to listen to what you think."
He snorts, though it's completely devoid of humor. No, Spencer doesn't seem like he's the fighting type, or ever was. Whereas Frank looks like he was made for war, all hard edges and brute force. "The beginning was the Marines." That's always been the beginning. He can pretend to be obtuse all he wants, but at least some things are still simple. "And I fucking loved--being a Marine." Nothing else compared to that brotherhood. To serving his country putting his inherent darkness to good use at last. The Marines offered him a safe harbor where he could be completely himself. He's never had that anywhere else, except maybe with Micro. When they were putting down the very people he thought he could trust.
Now that seems like they're getting somewhere. Spencer makes a quiet, listening noise to encourage him, eye contact cutting in and out so he doesn't seem too intent, using his mostly-empty coffee mug as an excuse.
"So what happened?" he asks, a simple leading statement. Letting him take that anywhere he wants.
Frank's expression resembles that of a puppy whose worn himself down after a long day of playing. He looks about to crash any second and his voice sounds just as tired. "You know what happened. Everyone does." He shakes his head, leaning over the table again but this time like he might need it to catch his fall, arms still wrapped tightly around himself. "I was a weapon for the kind of dickbag I was supposed to be going after. How do you think that feels?" A hiss, fuck. Spencer's going to ask him how that feels now, isn't he?
Actually... Reid takes the question literally. It's a good listening tactic, anyway, to check his understanding and his interpretation. It shows that he's paying attention, and wants to be corrected-- which he does.
"Awful," he says bluntly. "Dehumanizing. And I would guess..." More thoughtfully, as he turns it over, "Like a crisis of faith? If being in the Marines grounded you, losing that would be a betrayal." Spencer can liken it to the sense of abandonment he still carries from his father leaving. Something you thought you could depend on to support you, that you knew where you stood, suddenly gone.
He isn't sure if it's better or worse, that Reid can read him like a book. On the one hand, it's sweet validation to have the words come from someone else's lips. On the other... it feels like crap. Frank unbinds his arms to scrub a hand over his face. This is not anything like how he thought this would be, or how he thought it would feel to rehash.
"I killed a man in cold blood because my commander told me he was colluding with Al Quaida. He wasn't. He was just a dad, a business owner, trying to make his way like any-fucking-one else. This-this guy. Agent Orange, that's the only thing we knew to call him. Fucking piece of work from the minute I laid eyes on him. He said to all of us, he said we were the gun. The means to his end. He said, 'I point, you shoot.' And then he laughed." Frank swallows back his disgust, still hunched over the table, it's too hard to look at Spencer for this. "You're right, okay? You're right. I never thought the Marines could steer me wrong. Even when I felt-- even when I knew it didn't feel right, that didn't matter. All my trust was already with the unit. We were family."
He winces perceptibly. Reid is a very compassionate person, but he's not very graceful, physically or with other peoples' feelings.
"I'm sorry," he says somberly, with complete sincerity. "I don't have to agree with what you've done to understand why you did it. Degraded faith in the system and authority that was supposed to protect you -- having it objectify you into a weapon -- not to mention, unit cohesion is an intense experience, and the dissolution of it would be destabilizing. Anyone would find their breaking point."
All he can really offer in the face of that is validation. There's no trite reassurances to give, no real comfort possible, and it's not really Reid's place, besides. It's odd to be profiling someone he's talking to directly, but exhilarating and sobering in its own way. Usually Reid is too scared for his life when he's in this position to approach it genuinely. There's been a few exceptions, but never anyone it wasn't his active responsibility to bring in. He's getting what he wants out of the interview, but he hopes, and has hoped since he suggested it, that Frank would get something as well, that he wouldn't just drag him down painful memory lane for his own edification. That seems a hollow justification to Reid.
He looks away for the apology, but his gaze snaps back to Reid after that, working his jaw like he has a lot to say but not the will to say them. It's his turn to fidget, lacing his hands in front of him but twiddling his fingers restlessly -- the caffeine couldn't have helped. "Breaking point, yeah..." It's soft, almost meditative. "No, actually, my breaking point was finding out that my brother. Uncle to my fucking kids-- was in cahoots with that bastard, just to get a cut. It didn't matter that everything I had was in the line of fire." Literally. The vitriol that spews with his words is palpable, his hatred for Billy Russo complete. And yet he is still alive, unlike all of Frank's other targets. Albeit, with injuries so severe it will leave him disfigured for the rest of his life.
"You're sorry, hell. I'm sorry too! We can all be sorry. It doesn't bring them back." Nothing brings them back. Every night, he fails to save them one more time. Every night, he sees them get lost all over again. And slowly, taking root is a new fear. That the new family he'd pledged himself to-- the Liebermans. They're in danger too. Anyone who touches him is doomed to meet the same fate. Maybe even Spencer Reid. "I never had anything else. I had my family and I had the Marines." Which was also his family, and maybe even more important in a lot of ways. He shakes his head, there's nothing really left for him on this planet, and yet he goes on, just like Bill had said. Everyone else stays down but Frank Castle gets back up. Sometimes he really can't help but wonder why. Why does he bother opening his eyes every morning, if he has nothing left to live for?
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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He gets it. He still fidgets, because he's not great at being totally still, but Reid listens closely, attentive without being pressuring. "Sounds like me without the fighting back," he shoots back without a hint of embarrassment. "You're not the only walking stereotype. If you think your childhood is the beginning, we can start there. If you think it's somewhere else--" Spencer shrugs. "I'm here to listen to what you think."
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"So what happened?" he asks, a simple leading statement. Letting him take that anywhere he wants.
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"Awful," he says bluntly. "Dehumanizing. And I would guess..." More thoughtfully, as he turns it over, "Like a crisis of faith? If being in the Marines grounded you, losing that would be a betrayal." Spencer can liken it to the sense of abandonment he still carries from his father leaving. Something you thought you could depend on to support you, that you knew where you stood, suddenly gone.
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"I killed a man in cold blood because my commander told me he was colluding with Al Quaida. He wasn't. He was just a dad, a business owner, trying to make his way like any-fucking-one else. This-this guy. Agent Orange, that's the only thing we knew to call him. Fucking piece of work from the minute I laid eyes on him. He said to all of us, he said we were the gun. The means to his end. He said, 'I point, you shoot.' And then he laughed." Frank swallows back his disgust, still hunched over the table, it's too hard to look at Spencer for this. "You're right, okay? You're right. I never thought the Marines could steer me wrong. Even when I felt-- even when I knew it didn't feel right, that didn't matter. All my trust was already with the unit. We were family."
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"I'm sorry," he says somberly, with complete sincerity. "I don't have to agree with what you've done to understand why you did it. Degraded faith in the system and authority that was supposed to protect you -- having it objectify you into a weapon -- not to mention, unit cohesion is an intense experience, and the dissolution of it would be destabilizing. Anyone would find their breaking point."
All he can really offer in the face of that is validation. There's no trite reassurances to give, no real comfort possible, and it's not really Reid's place, besides. It's odd to be profiling someone he's talking to directly, but exhilarating and sobering in its own way. Usually Reid is too scared for his life when he's in this position to approach it genuinely. There's been a few exceptions, but never anyone it wasn't his active responsibility to bring in. He's getting what he wants out of the interview, but he hopes, and has hoped since he suggested it, that Frank would get something as well, that he wouldn't just drag him down painful memory lane for his own edification. That seems a hollow justification to Reid.
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"You're sorry, hell. I'm sorry too! We can all be sorry. It doesn't bring them back." Nothing brings them back. Every night, he fails to save them one more time. Every night, he sees them get lost all over again. And slowly, taking root is a new fear. That the new family he'd pledged himself to-- the Liebermans. They're in danger too. Anyone who touches him is doomed to meet the same fate. Maybe even Spencer Reid. "I never had anything else. I had my family and I had the Marines." Which was also his family, and maybe even more important in a lot of ways. He shakes his head, there's nothing really left for him on this planet, and yet he goes on, just like Bill had said. Everyone else stays down but Frank Castle gets back up. Sometimes he really can't help but wonder why. Why does he bother opening his eyes every morning, if he has nothing left to live for?