Faolan finds himself being led back into the kitchen and down into the chair he'd been seated in earlier. With the sausage rolls, he thinks to himself, sardonically. He tosses a brief glance over his shoulder towards the direction of the door, wondering if there's a chance he could make it, but it's a ridiculous thought and he registers that even as drunk as he still remains. For one thing, he still hasn't quite got his feet about him. For another, there are a lot of guests and obstacles to get past or through to get there, and if Lancelot catches him he suspects he'll be planted right back here. As many times as it takes for the idea to stick, he supposes.

So he looks back to Lancelot, hoping the look on his face isn't too painfully obvious as he thinks it is, but he feels rather like he's drowning here, and he has no idea how to stop himself from sinking further. He shouldn't have done that. He's ruined everything. Sooner or later, the other shoe will fall. And then of course there's Gwaine. Try as he might Faolan can't seem to force himself to act normally. So he decides silence is perhaps the best option, slumping forward on the table in front of himself instead.