One long, heavy moment is spent with Frank — upper lip and shirt collar coated in blood, nose throbbing — staring at Clint skeptically, a knit in his brow and a thoughtful frown on his lips. There's a clear debate going on upstairs, though how much of his brains are left functional after that solid elbow to the goddamn cartilage is anybody's guess.

Enough, evidently, for him to declare decisively, "C'mon."

And start walking.

He'll make it all of ten steps if Clint doesn't follow before he stops, turns, and stares expectantly, impatient. "Come on, man. I'm gonna clean my stupid face and your stupid face and then I'm gonna tell you where in the hell you're not gonna go picking fights in a ten-mile radius from now on. Then you're gonna tell me what your deal is. Also, I'm fucking starving."

Amazing what kind of appetite you work up, beating the shit out of a guy and playing baseball. Mostly the baseball thing. Fight didn't last that long.

"Hey- what's your name, anyway?"