"Yeah, we're fine," Frank says, vaguely. It's better for the dog than anything, because he gets to rest all day in comfort with functioning air conditioning and nice rugs instead of the dirty, glorified gun storage lockers Frank had been calling safehouses until now. Frank himself keeps more than busy, out-and-about while Danny's at work or doing his own thing in the streets, but he's not about to mention that to Danny any more than he'd mention it to Red. For mostly the same reasons.

He pulls out another pan, so he can throw the meat into it and start it browning. He doesn't cook fancy, just stuff that can fill a person up. With minimal grease.

He snorts, giving Danny a once-over before bothering to reach for the jar of marinara sauce he bought to dump in with the meat. "Are you generally crap at smalltalk, or is it just because it's me?" Not that he's been offering up any titillating subjects for discussion, or anything. Minor details.