Something about the situation -- pinned down, however gently, against the cold ground -- makes something in Lambert's booze-addled instincts flare up, twisting out from under John's foot and rolling up to his feet in a crouch. He doesn't even think about leaving one hand outstretched, fingers shaping themselves into a series of motions, and...

And nothing. Lambert blinks at his own hand from behind skewed glasses, frowning. What was that even supposed to accomplish? But the tussle's been enough to slip his necklace out of his shirt, and he wraps a hand around the body-warmed metal absently, looking up at John with a smirk to cover the moment of uncertainty.

"Well, one thing's for sure. You're no Tam Lin." Then again, how much credibility do those stories really have?