Someday, Strange is going to accidentally hit someone with a fist after charging up that ring all day, and that someone's probably going to be someone he doesn't mean to hit.

"Thanks, Strange. You really know how to make a guy feel special." Lambert visibly brightens when he gets his necklace -- though it's not something he'll ever wear, if only because he's wearing so much damn shit already, there's no disguising the brief, greedy glint in his eye before he's snapping the box shut. Some people at the table have a habit of stealing his shit, after all, and the less Childermass registers there's something new and shiny to get into, so much the better. He's yet to steal back his jewelry from the other supervisor, though it's a good reminder he ought to get to that soon.

Childermass's comments, however, make him smirk. "It's not like I told Strange, either." The man's just presumptuous and showy, that's all, and fond of assuming things. But more importantly-- "A sailor? You?" He rakes his gaze up and down the magician critically, like he can't quite picture Childermass standing on the deck of a ship. It's a profession that generally involves getting soaked on a regular basis -- imagining him doing that in the heavy coat that was his usual wear until Lambert tore it up is a funnier mental image than it should be.