Faolan's expression darkens slightly at that. Bleeding too quickly to refuse him. His jaw tightens and he forces his gaze back to the task at hand, lest the other man be witness to whatever else might be lurking in his eyes. Faolan feels the anger rising in him, and he lets it build, because it's better than the fear. The pain of the knowledge that Lancelot could have died that night, months ago. He had been forced to put his life in the hands of a vampire. And then he had kept the whole matter to himself.

"Why didn't you say anything about this before?" he asks, trying to keep his voice low, but somehow that makes it worse. Because he knows, to some extent. Lancelot had said, after all. It had been a busy month. He had had a lot going on. But he would have had time for this. He would have made time for this. He would always have time for Lancelot, when he needed it. Didn't he understand that?