"Nat," Frank greets her finally once she's close enough, accompanied by one stoic nod of his bleeding head. Got him right in the eyebrow at one point, right in the nose at another — not that the latter's surprising. Seems to always happen, he's had the damn thing broken no less than twelve times in his life. The more it breaks, the easier a target it becomes. Kind of a vicious circle.

He's set to follow Clint's lead here; when he's ready to go, they'll go. Until then, he'll stay. They'll let him on board that damn plane if he has to stow away with the goddamn luggage right now, it's not a good time for him to be wandering alone. Not after- this. Not for either of them.

He starts to turn to follow Clint into the house — only to pause and turn back to Natasha again.

"Hey- my van, you think you could-" Because he's not leaving it here, but he's also not driving it back to New York.

"We'll handle it."

That earns her the faintest attempt at a smile, and a genuine, "'ppreciate it."

First thing Frank asked Karen about when he found out she broke into his house, those early early days when his head was still scrambled, was whether or not the dishes were on the table or in the sink. Never felt more relief than when she told him they were in the drying rack. He gets this part, too.

He goes in. Picks up the chair and tucks it neatly back into its place at the table.