"If we're all gonna play house here, I figure it's time to clear the air," Frank answers, striding into the kitchen in a vague arc, his shoulders tight. He's not nervous exactly — what the hell has he got to be nervous about anymore — but he has a certain respect for the other man on reputation, which has so far only been supported by experience, and this talk is a little different from chaining some nut-job in red pajamas to a rooftop to try to make him understand. (And even then, he'd cared enough what the Devil of Hell's Kitchen thought of him to try.) He steels his spine as he turns to face the other man and tries not to care half as much how this goes. There's nothing to be done about it now.

"I know who you are," he says, with a nod to Sam. "The Falcon. One of the Avengers. We're from the same place — me, you, and Carter." That's the easy part, and he settles his feet shoulder width apart, chin up, before he adds the rest.

"Which means I gotta ask you if you know who I am." A beat. "Last name's Castle."