Murdock bounced into the kitchen. Some mornings he did that, even if he hadn't gotten laid by a slutty socialite who probably would open her legs for a German Shepherd if the dog had paid her any attention.
(Face was still feeling sick, and bitter)
"Mornin', Facey!" Murdock bounced his way to the conman's side, all smiles and sunshine.
"Hmph," Face replied eloquently, staring deeper into his black coffee.
"Goooood morning, good morning—we talked the whole night through," Murdock sang, channeling his inner Debbie Reynolds as he came up beside Face's chair, "good morning, good morning, to you—"
"Hmph," Face repeated.
Murdock stopped singing. "You okay, Facey?"
"Yes."
(No)
"Why're you up so early? Job went fine—better than fine, really, for once—usually you're sleeping till mid-morning as a treat. You want me to make you some breakfast—"
(Face couldn't sleep, because mental images of Murdock and that slut played out behind his eyelids, complete with stereo surround sound courtesy of the damn crystal-clear microphones and earpieces B.A. managed to rig up)
"—I could do pancakes or waffles if you give me a little bit of time, or just some quick eggs and toast—"
"No."
Murdock eyed him critically. "You drink too much last night? You want some aspirin or somethin'? Need more than just black coffee in your stomach—want some toast?"
"No."
"Okay then . . ." Murdock was obviously not convinced but contrary to popular belief he could not pester on occasion. "Hope you wake up soon!"
He dropped a hand on Face's shoulder—
(Don't react don't react)
—gave a squeeze, and bounced back out of the room.