[It's a nifty party trick when there's no thirty foot sea snakes to kill.

Richie takes the ice cube with a bemused calm, palm stretched flat. He's less shocked by the gesture now, considering relativity of strangeness (both Boxer and Sandra outclass a little instant freeze, and they're sleeping none too far away) and the fugue state he was rousing out of.]

Wound is a strong word. Idiot bonk is more like it. [He presses the cube to the second head sprouting next to his hairline. Richie's laughter lives high and quiet in his throat, more breath than sound as he tries to temper his volume. He drops back onto the sofa and shuts his eyes.] Sorry about this. You should get to bed, kiddo, you're gonna be dragging excess baggage under your eyes come morning, and that's a look that don't suit anyone south of thirty-five.