"Mm?"

For a moment there's little recognition, and then Geto's expression clears as he puts a name to the face. Or more likely, power to it.

"Ah, Mr. Temperature control. That's fine, you can take it, I'm not waiting for anyone."

He offers up a shrug, a wry singular smile. His chin rests in his palm, an empty bowl of the stew sitting in front of him. "Are you doing all right?"