A Difference of Opinions
Roleplaying Log: A Difference of Opinions
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

Dick Grayson and Frank Castle share information, a drink, a flame, and not much else.

Other Characters Referenced: Barbara Gordon, William Rawlins III
IC Date: September 22, 2019
IC Location: The Roadhouse, NYC
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 21 Sep 2019 06:14
Rating & Warnings: R for language
Scene Soundtrack: [* ]
NPC & GM Credits:
Associated Plots

Dick had taken what Frank had given him. He watched it in its entirety. Eyes narrowed at the screen as he watched it in privacy first so he can make a full case out of it. So, he pulls out his cell phone, scrolls to the contact information titled only as 'Walking Dead' and he sends him a text.

'Want to meet up. Have info. What about the Roadhouse off of 32nd and Londo? -DG'

Dick already was at the bar just in case Frank was doing scouting ahead like he knows he always did. What? Frank wasn't the only one who long-since learned to check the trails, so to speak. But he's currently nursing a light glass of whiskey, but clearly he has no intention of getting drunk tonight. And he's dressed more casually, clearly with no intention of getting identified as a cop either, but Frank could still recognize him. He's in a corner booth for privacy.

* * *

'Be there at 8.'

Frank still feels like crap, still looks like crap, but he's starting to look and feel like crap warmed over, at least. The bruises that cover large swathes of his face are truly spectacular shades of blue, purple, green, black, and even a few starting to yellow. He heals fast, but he's only human. He's got a Mets cap on again, and in deference to the cooling weather a canvas-covered work jacket on over his hoodie and jeans. As Dick expected, Frank was there half an hour early, studying the place, finding the exits, checking the clientele. It's five minutes 'til when he steps in, glancing around from under the bill of his cap and heading over to the bar even after he notices Dick in the corner. He talks to the bartender a minute, passes a bill over, and then he's coming over to the booth with a bottle of some domestic macrobrew in his left hand. "Flatfoot." It's a quiet greeting in his gravelly voice, although it sounds less horrific than it did last time. "Whatcha got?"

* * *

Dick looks at Frank as he arrives, giving him a smirk when he looks at his clock. "About a minute earlier than what I expected, Pete." He uses his alias in public situations because honestly? Dick understands that Frank is in no condition to be in any kind of situation right now.

"Enough information to put everything on Rawlins and get the CIA and any other government-funded operation off of your ass. I ran vocal recognition on the one ya called 'Bill'." He takes a breath

"But you were there. You saw everything. They beat ya within an inch of your life." He's getting to a point, most likely.

* * *

Frank lifts his brows slightly at the first statement, "Yeah?" But the second statement causes him to blink in mild surprise, a frown building on his heavy brows as he casts his mind back into those brutally painful memories. "Bill was really there? Pretty sure he was all in my head." There's a pause, and then his brows lift a little, "Oh." He takes a pull at his beer, the long neck held in the loop of one index finger, "You mean Rawlins. Yeah. Our mutual friend IDed him. And yeah. They pretty much did. Had to keep him talkin', make sure he fucked himself."

* * *

Dick sips his drink. Trained by the World's Greatest Detective, Grayson knows how to get information. He nods. "I did mean Rawlins. But also…You mentioned his name alot. 'has to be you, Bill' you said. Is he a friend? Cuz uh…if its the same 'Bill', he was sure doing a number on you before you asked."

He sits there for a moment. "If uh, you want to talk about it, well…I'm here for ya." But then he clears his throat after the bro-moment.

"And yeah, William Rawlins the third, right? Something long and obnoxious. Well you did a damned good job. But…I need you to be aware that when this gets out, they'll probably bring you in for direct questioning. Or ask you to. Or force you to." Dick tells him the situation. This is high grade shit. CIA-level.

* * *

"Oh. Yeah, him. My brother, Bill." Frank pauses a moment, "By blood, not birth. Coulda sworn he was there for a minute, but pain," he lifts up the bottle, giving the neck a little twist up by his temple, "does screwy things to you." The offer to talk causes him to snort, "Come on, man. You don't know me for shit. Hell, you don't even like me. I get it, sometimes bein' near me puts Red in danger. I don't much like it either, but there ain't no way I'd ask her to stay out of it, even if she'd do it." Taking another pull of the beer, he nods, "Yeah. I sent 'em a confession, too. About the shit we did in Cerberus. I know it fucks me if they leak it, but it fucks them harder. Figured that'd be enough to keep them from pokin' their nose in too hard. Don't think they want to see Rawlins on the nightly news, beating the shit outta me, and both of us talkin' about the shit we did under his orders."

* * *

Dick looks at Pete as he goes on a gerrymandering that implies that Dick isn't his friend. "If I wanted to be your friend, I would've taken you to an arcade and let you borrow my tokens when you ran out." Yes, Dick is being a bit of a…well, his namesake. "Do I like you dating a close friend of mine? No. I frankly think you're going to get her killed. Or send her down a worse path than you were sent on." Dick tells him plain as fucking day.

"But at the same time, you mean a lot to her. and I frankly don't want to go through the talk of her telling us we need to get along, do you? Plus, You've been through a lot and you agreed to work with me against probably your instincts, so I gotta thank you for that. Which is why I bought you a beer. Couldn't have done it without you. You exposed someone who needed exposing. And he's going to go down hard."

Then he looks Frank in the eyes.

* * *

Frank looks supremely unworried at Dick's response. He might even be amused, although he covers it with another pull from his beer. "She ain't gonna go on anywhere near the path I took. She's the reason I didn't go off the rails." Apparently, he considers 37 (that they know about) murders still 'on the rails.' "And she can take care of her own damn self." There's a pause, and then he admits, "Don't mean I ain't gonna do every single thing in my power to make sure she stays safe." He takes another little sip of his beer, then cracks a momentary, boyish smile that belongs on a face that isn't six shades of bruised, "I think I liked you better when you were just a cop, Flatfoot." At least he keeps that quiet and vague. He's gotten some instincts about dealing with masks and capes. "He's already down, by the way. Rawlins. He's dead."

* * *

It seems they are two sides of the same coin. But Dick has never, and to himself, won't ever (as he swore long ago) to never take a life. But Frank has killed A LOT of people. Even if he's a good man screwed by the people he served. "37 people say otherwise." Dick tells him flatly in a deadpanned expression. A reference to Frank's, perhaps now paused for the moment, body count.

"Oh trust me, I know she can take care of herself. You forget you're not the first person to have ever dated the woman, Pete." still using his alias, just in case the walls have ears.

When he says Rawlins is dead, Dick narrows his eyes. "38." Dick says then. "But at the same time, I doubt you were able to pull that off in your state. For right now you can barely even smile." Dick seems to be disbelieving but…Frank's gotten out of a lot of shitty spots.

"And I liked you better when you weren't making the news, but hey, can't all be happy." He smirks at Frank then. Apparently appreciating the sense of humor.

* * *

"Thirty-seven?" Frank covers another amused grin with one more sip of his beer, then shrugs, setting the bottle down and turning it around and around with his right hand at the neck. "Good." The correction to the number draws another shrug from Frank, glancing down to his beer bottle and keeping quiet for a moment, "The numbers aren't important after the first couple. Each time you do it, it's important, but the number ain't. When you're at war, you kill the guys on the other side, simple as that. You put 'em in jail, they get out, they come back. How many people's the Clown killed? After the first time he got put in Arkham?" The pause this time is a shift in topics, "I don't much like it when I'm on the news either. Makes it harder to go out for a bite to eat or a cuppa coffee. So the information you got for me? You heard somethin' from the Company? About what they're gonna do? Or it somethin' else on the Other Guy." Because while 'Frank Castle' is a dangerous name to say out loud, 'Wilson Fisk' is a much, much more dangerous one.

* * *

"You can't fight crime by being like them. Makes you no better. To everyone else on the planet, you're just another thug with a gun." Dick tells Frank with a conviction in his words. "All someone does by killing another person is create another killer in the process. It never ends." Dick tells Frank then. "And what about the families the dead leave behind? The people? One perosn dies, its a chain reaction of pain. What if you created another you in the process, but with an inversed agenda?" These were important questions to think about and this is certainly one that will be a divisive one between them.

But at the question of Fisk, he answers. "More like something on the other guy. He's been quiet, but I have a feeling he's planning something big very soon. Sometimes someone takes a crack at him, but otherwise…he hasn't made any drastic moves. But I can only imagine he'll try and resume his former operations as soon as people start paying less attention to him." Dick takes a breath.

"I'll keep you posted on that front."

* * *

Frank shakes his head at Dick's arguments about his methods, "If you're a shit-for-brains idiot spraying lead everywhere, yeah." Leaning forward slightly, he rests his forearms on the edge of the table, "Then you're bein' like them. But that's not what I'm doin'. I don't give a shit how other people see me. I know my limits. I know the kinda people I put down for good and the kind who show up on the doorstep of the nearest precinct." His eyes narrow, and his voice gets more animated, intense, "If the rest of your cop buddies did their jobs, I wouldn't have to do this shit at all." He leans back then with a little groan and a tender rub at his rib-cage, shaking his head and taking a drink of his beer to cool his fire off. "Yeah. The more of those dumbasses you can keep from takin' a shot at him, the better." Because it'll be easier when it comes time for him to take that shot, not that he's going to say that out loud. "Thanks. And yeah, I'd be surprised if he ain't already started up again, just real quiet-like."

* * *

Dick looks at Frank as he leans forward, but Dick makes no movement. Frank might assume that he's afraid, but Dick is not. "Then thats a problem to take up with your local governor, or, even better, try running for president, not gun down every scumbag that comes your way. Because these guys are like roaches. You kill one, two more come out of the works. You arn't helping, you're aggravating a disease."

"Call it a difference of opinion out of professional courtesy." Dick says with a bit of his own intensity as he looks in Frank's eyes. Heh, Dick would've made a great marine if he didn't decide to be a cop instead. Real go-getter. But the whole no-kill thing would be a serious issue. Another life, maybe.

"I always like to think they have a change of heart. They rarely do." Dick gives a tired shrug of his shoulders. He finishes off his drink.

His phone buzzes.

Dick glances at it. "Duty calls, Mr. Castiglione." he pockets the phone. If Frank looked at it, it was just a report from a fellow cop that Dick is needed at the precinct. Probably paperwork.

* * *

"They are like roaches," Frank agrees, but his response to roaches is different, "You don't squish 'em, they breed and come back with friends." But he allows, "The young ones, the ones that ain't serious, they can be scared straight. I got no problem with that. It's just the ones who keep comin' right back and doin' it again, those are the ones that need to be put down for good." He goes silent when the phone buzzes, nodding. He doesn't try to check the phone, taking another sip of his beer and then lifting it slightly in a casual sort of salute, "I'll let you know if anything else comes up with Rawlins or the Talons."

* * *

Dick gets out of the booth and he puts on his coat, he didn't have a hat but the badge is now visible on his belt. "Yeah, well." He shakes his head. "Agree to disagree." He pats Frank on the shoulder. "Appreciated." He puts his hand on the table then before he leaves.

What was left?

Enough leftover to buy Frank another drink. Seems they might get along after all.

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