It says something about what his life has become that the sight of that barely merits a blink anymore. Lambert's had an inkling of what his new feathery friend was when he'd first told him about iron, but he'd never asked. Partly because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, partly because he'd never expected to see the man again, much less to strike up an odd friendship built mostly around giving each other shit.

A faerie of some kind, he'd thought, but the way he spoke of it just now, it didn't seem like that was what he was. Maybe closer to a cursed human, like he'd first assumed.

Something to ponder over later. For now, he'll finish his cigarette, stubbing it out and flicking it away into a bin before getting on his bike again. He'll go ahead and stride right inside without waiting to see if John will follow. As the changeling would know, beer's normally his go-to -- and in Portland, there sure is a hell of a lot of it -- but tonight feels like it deserves something stronger.

"What's your poison?" he murmurs, then reconsiders. "Better question: what's your budget?" Because hell if he knows if John has any money, he's never seen him buy anything. He doesn't really know much about him at all, so following him back to wherever he lives with the full intention of getting wasted should by all rights be the worst of ideas, but instead it just feels ... comfortably familiar.