Faolan frowns slightly at the other man's fussing, not because he minds it particularly, but because he'd like to think that he's smarter than that. That if he were to wind up in trouble, if the wounds were to get infected or something, that he'd be willing to swallow his guilt and pride and come to the other man for assistance. He'd let him clean them now, after all, hadn't he?

He turns his head so that he can meet Lancelot's gaze as the other man leans in towards him before shying away. "It doesn't hurt any more than you'd expect that it would," he mumbles in response. Which is to say that yes, it does still hurt, and no, he hadn't really taken anything for it. He'd done his best to clean it out himself -- stood under the shower with the hot water on it for a good long while -- but that had been about it.