[It's perverse, yeah, and strange, being able to look at a man all you want without him looking back. Murdock's probably, certainly, keeping track of other things, but vision - Frank's way of it - is his alone. He looks at the sleepless night in the light purple of the skin under the man's eyes, the imperfect line of his shave that's regrowth, not fumble. How does Murdock shave? Huh. The corner of Frank's mouth twitches upward as he stands there, muscles not quite still. Never quite as still as when he's looking down a scope.]
You talk too much, that's for sure. [But the spark of intentional aggression, that's gone from his tone.] Looks like someone else thought so too. [Frank reaches up without hesitation, his hand moving toward the dark edge of a bruise peeking from the corner of Murdock's shadowed jaw - and stops, fingers hovering. He breathes out through his nose.
no subject
You talk too much, that's for sure. [But the spark of intentional aggression, that's gone from his tone.] Looks like someone else thought so too. [Frank reaches up without hesitation, his hand moving toward the dark edge of a bruise peeking from the corner of Murdock's shadowed jaw - and stops, fingers hovering. He breathes out through his nose.
Waiting for permission.]