Faolan doesn't miss the careful way that the other man is speaking to him, the way that his training seems to have taken over. He wonders whether the other man has dealt with situations like this or whether it's the first time he's putting his learning into practice. Faolan's done his fair share of working with the police, but the fact that he hasn't met this man yet doesn't mean anything. He has a particular liaison who makes it a habit of calling him in on cases, and the rest of them? Probably could care less who or what he is. He wonders, as he watches the earnest look on the other man's face as he frowns at his arm and talks about needing to cut his jacket off, whether this man is new, whether he just hasn't seen enough action yet, or whether he really is that genuine. Him and his large, fluffy white dog both.

"No one's cutting anything off," he grumbles. "Here." He moves to try and help remove the jacket himself. Wincing as he does -- the movement may or may not have been a poor decision on his part. What can he say, he really likes this coat, even with the blood all over it. He's developed a particular talent for being able to remove blood from clothes, after all. Hazard of the trade, he supposes.