He stares down Faolan for a long moment, studying the way his eyes flick away and the flush of his cheeks, the awkward stilt of his words.

"All right," Lancelot says finally, and drops his eyes back down to stir the eggs. "These just need a few moments longer. Do you want anything on them?"

Setting the bread toasting he digs out salt and pepper, opens the fridge again and regards it thoughtfully. Faolan generally doesn't want tomato ketchup on things, but would hollandaise sauce be too much on a delicate stomach?