( Maybe he needs to hear that a little, that first part. That it mattered, the things he did, they mattered to the whole, even if it isn't actually fixing him. He feels stable with a mission, he feels like his head's clear, he feels like he can tune out that howling loneliness when he's got a target lined up to chase. Going from one to the next to the next was keeping him busy, keeping him pointing all that anger and rage and feeling out to somewhere external, to someone outside of himself.

Without it... without it, there's nowhere to direct it but inward. He needs to do what he does, or he's going to self-destruct and burn another house down. Burn himself down. Swallow a bullet. Maybe all three.

Clint hits the ground, and Frank's left wondering, confused, absolutely lacking in comprehension for one piece of this: )

Why's it matter so much to you? Huh? All the shit you've seen me do, why's it a house that finally tripped you up?