Faolan shoots a look back at the other man, at the accent, at the attitude. At the words. His eyes narrowing slightly as he's ushered along into the other man's bedroom, displeased with Lancelot being called a slut even as otherwise overwhelmed as he is.

And then he's standing in Lancelot's bedroom, and that wriggling sensation inside of him doesn't seem to be going anywhere anytime soon. The only reason he gets to setting down his things being Lancelot's encouragement, the man's hands nearly removing the bag for him. He sets down the bag of his gifts as well, unable to help a curious glance around as he does, only just remembering enough of himself to say, "Ehm. Lily. There are things in there she's going to want to get at. You'd better make sure to keep her away from it until we sort it all out."

He straightens, moving to slide off his jacket, holding it in his hands for a moment afterwards. Uncertain what to do with it. Uncertain what to do with himself for that matter. Had Lancelot planned for everything to fall into place like this? And if so, why? "A drink sounds good to me," he says, trying his best not to sound desperate.