"Bet you were a scrawny kid." Frank muses over the image in his head. He doesn't know much about Red that doesn't start with a kick in the head on a dark rooftop. Red didn't need digging into and he sure as shit already knew how to beat himself up when they met. They might only - still - have a tenuous ally-ship, but Red's never been anywhere close to being on Frank's list. Which leaves a big ol' cluttered room of his past that Frank's never even tried knocking on. He knows the old man's a part of it. And Elektra. But that's about it.

"Y'know I can't see it. You in fatigues, bitch' and moanin' about what's fair and moral in war." His knee's starting to ache. "With that silver tongue though you might have just fast-tracked to JAG. Huh." He snorts, breathes in the steam of the coffee. "Wouldn't look bad in that uniform, though." Red, the confidence in his body even when he's hiding it, buttoned up in sharp Dress Blues.

"But me? Nothin'." His thumb rubs the side of his mug. "There was nothin' except getting out. Creativity ain't my strong suit, Red. There was just my shitty little couple blocks in Queens, and when I was old enough the Marines gave me an out." An out of New York, an aggressive outlet for his rage.