You would make a killing— [ A beat, then remembering Locus' new aversion to killing, he stresses; ] —financially in a reality show.

[ He'd probably be mobbed every time he left the house, which Felix knows he'd hate. But he can just imagine the crowds of starry-eyed women lining up for autographs and pictures. And his own subsequent murder spree once it gets to be too much for his miniscule patience.

Shaking his head, Felix pulls himself out of that bizarre daydream and snaps his fingers. ]

I think we need an eggnog break before we tackle decorating. It's apparently the drink of Christmas. [ He wrinkles his nose. ] I just hope it tastes better than it sounds. I'll be right back.

[ He's just through the doorway when he leans back into the living room and points to Locus, finally answering the question in a more informative manner. ]

You have sap in your hair. At the back. There's a... [ Making a fiddly little gesture that describes nothing, he pulls his phone out his pocket and takes a picture. It's just easier. He tosses it to Locus with a stern; ] Don't you dare delete that.

[ Then he disappears into the kitchen to get refreshments. ]