[He likes this - Murdock without glasses, without lenses of any kind. Eyes the color of the coffee they're drinking. It's a new enough discovery to be something he's still taking in, the almost oxymoronic idea that they're two feet apart and Murdock's eyes can't find Frank but it's damn sure his knuckles could. Something about the friction between those two things always causes a heavy pressure to uncurl at the bottom of his gut.]

Nah, I'm good. Use whiskey more to disinfect than drink. [Frank pushes off the counter and walks slowly around the kitchen as he sips the coffee. He uses a finger to check the cupboard. The level of amber liquid in each bottle.] Curious what you consider worth celebratin', though. Winning a case?