"Towel," he agrees, half-stumbling, half-swaying his way towards the bathroom, looking for all the world as though he's just had several strong drinks -- and maybe, in a way, he has. Blood does seem to have an intoxicating effect on him, although Charlie's isn't anywhere near as potent as Ned's blood, which is probably a good thing, in all likelihood.

He stumbles back, towel in hand, clumsily pressing it against Charlie's neck, thinking about how Charlie's probably getting blood on the sheets, how Charlie might even be scorching the sheets with his body heat, and finding that he doesn't really care. There're other things to care about now, like the nauseating feeling that he completely lost control of himself once again, even if Charlie had told him to bite him.

He hates this. He really hates this. And what he hates the most of all is that it feels undeniably good to bite Charlie, to take his blood. If it weren't so enjoyable, it wouldn't be so awful.