If Murphy didn't feel like he had been clocked over the head with a nine iron and a climbing fever, he might have managed a cohesive response to that first question. It wasn't like he needed to add to his roster of apologies for LB.

Now he felt more like he was tethering between the edges of lucidity and black. The back of his eyelids burned like acid when he tried shutting them. A tiny voice on the back of his mind was screaming for him to wake up.

Actually, he found out moments later that that was actually just LB.

It was amusing how he never knew how comfortable the floor was until now, despite being hit in the face and shaken to stay awake.

His eyes shut tight, but his brows furrowed as he tried clinging to consciousness a little more, despite severely not wanting to.

"Christ, keep it down, won't you?"

He was trying to sleep.